Brains!

I’ve been writing a whole lot. In a journal, I bought a Moleskine. Supposedly Hemingway and Vango and other such loonies wrote in Moleskines. There are single thoughts that I feel like I have to write down, or they will be gone. Keeping them in a journal is keeping them safe to a certain degree. When I don’t have a chance to type things up, I can write them in it, save them for later. I’ve tried to make this a habit, and so far it is not breaking, perhaps it is because I bought it unlined, allowing maximum flexibility. I've drawn a lot in it, doodles and sketches. These following pieces would each be found on their own page, signifying beginning and end.

I don’t know if I need a vacation as much as an adventure. A journey where I am un-able to attach myself to things. Things that I do not need, people who do not need me.

Maybe I am trying to hard. Trying to be something I am not. Maybe I should let all myself out. Maybe that is what’s wrong. But in trying to please others, impress them I am being myself and I just don’t know it?

I had not wanted to use pen in this journal, but it was all that there was in my pack today. I’m sitting at College Cove, sheltered from the wind, but blazing with sun just the same. The smell of sunscreen, sweat and ocean wash up my chest. My favorite smells of recent days, Juniper incense in the evening, sunscreen in the day. I had forgotten this place. How I discovered it, spent time in its lap. Sitting here now it seems like some deep memory, some part of me that was always there, before I was even born. The beaches of Northern California can leave someone felling so very isolated. It’s a different sort of feeling, from the Southern California beach stretching on and on. I realize how much my life is intertwined with the Pacific Ocean. It is where the mother’s secrets are kept, her tears and blood well up. I have grown up living close to it; I don’t know how much I could function without knowing it swirled close to me. The clouds play tricks on me today. I see islands on the horizon where there are none. This sand is dark and soft, I can’t find cigarette butts and smoothed out shards of glass like I can on the raped sand of Venice beach.

I have never craved being away from James and the apartment so much as I have these past days. So much anger. It saddens me how much I have grown so full of frustration. Such heated feelings towards dumb things.

Mostly I remember his long bedroom, unusually long. It stretched out unlit during an afternoon of gentle Humboldt rain. I know he had an unmade bed, but we were not in it. Some place else. I had a feeling with him I have not yet experienced with anyone yet. Perhaps that is the feeling I have caused all this to happen, perhaps that is what I am looking for. I don’t know who he was; I know he wasn’t built like Bike Guy, tall lanky, or scrawny or spindly like Galen, or like James stiff and muscular. He seemed smaller, but not weak by any means. I had a faint sense of Howl from the dubbed English version of Howl’s Moving Castle, a movie I am surprisingly enchanted with. It’s peculiar I know to be attracted to a fictional cartoon character, but it’s not the way it sounds, at least I don’t think so. It’s more like the delivery of lines, the choice of words, and the movement portrayed, I can’t explain it. I don’t know how to say it without sounding completely creepy. Perhaps it’s the way I feel when I watch that movie, not even Howl the character. But this person was that feeling, when I woke up I was angry I wanted to sleep to go back to him, back to his tall ceilings, rectangular windows and plaid blankets.