2003-10-27 11:05 p.m.
Some old material

I just rediscovered something I'd written in an old notebook while I was having what must have been something of a bad day. A doubting kind of day. Which is rare for me. Dammit, my sense of humor does not wither. Ever. It's just about the only thing I know I can rely on one hundred percent (besides my Steve). Anyway, here it is:

There's a hush fallen over the world. I feel it everywhere, the quiet.

The first music I ever remember hearing was Pink Floyd's The Wall. I remember, at eleven, asking my mother what this record was about. "Is it about war? It sounds like it's about war." She said yes, that in a way, it was about war. I didn't understand. Not yet.

The soundtrack has become decidedly dull. Life's music is not what it used to be. My life is not what it used to be. I am Sarah's soft core. I'm all waxed eyebrows, car payments, overtime, dissatisfaction. Now. I spend a lot of my time chainsmoking and letting my eyes fill up with tears. And reinforcing my cynicism in the bittersweet company of the ghosts of Bukowski and Parker. Trying to nurture my sense of humor with Adams and Wilson. It's a dying thing, you see; a little blue bird with one wing broken.

No, two.

Wonder if I'll miss it when it goes. Maybe it'll leave me something in the will.

There's this thing going on, I can feel its weight and it's ever present, it's everywhere, and it is one big thing, blanketing, enveloping the earth, and when it touches me, I am acutely, unequivocally sad.

My apartment is filthy. My clothing is covered in a thin layer of cat hair. I am tired. And I am trying to recapture a feeling that abandoned me long ago. A profound feeling. A feeling of profoundness. Sometimes, once in a while, I have a feeling of profoundness now. Different, though, than what it used to be. Now I feel it when I think about the impending war. When I think about skinny Ryan in his uniform going off to fight that war. When I see a car go by with flags whipping and picture it slow motion documentary style. When I see kids on bikes speeding down the hill (no hands!). Or those kids down the street playing with a paper airplane and the wind, joy on their faces, the kind money can't buy. The old feeling would come when I played Nirvana on the stereo or told somebody that deserved it to fuck off. Or when I finished a poem.

I feel like I left myself somewhere long ago and only just realized myself missing. And now I have to play detective (oh, if I could be so cool as Philip Marlowe!), search the archives, follow the footsteps, decipher the clues.

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