In many eyes

I usually have a lot of tabs open, 25 right now. I like that I can come back to them, or open them for later perusal. Like leaving a book open on the desk, more like leaving many books open on my desk.

Eric Dolphy is playing. I put him on because Joanna Kyger writes that Robert Creeley would play him loud after the bars had closed.

I do not know how memory works really. The slightest things sends me years back and miles way to other places I was then there. 4 days at Hotel Arcata, square squat brick, off the plaza hippies filled, laid out like damp paper, each day hoping their hands and endurance are needed. A scribed elevator, the scent of old glamor is better than none at all. Woke each morning early by empty bottles sorted below the window. We both had a certain anxiety, or this form of waiting was not what we had planned for. I will never be back there and I wasn’t completely present then.

I started to take my writing seriously for the third or fourth time. Each morning I sat, at the table between tv and the corner, to write. Instead I became distracted by a booger a past body had dragged against the calloused beige wall. I did not clean it, I could not ignore it. I wrote well later that month, after I got used to the wind on the tent every night between 10 and 10:30. I managed a lot down and did not leave too much between the hesitant trees.

Thoughts in series. Even with outward invention, are all inward? I plastered images all along without purpose or realization. Either most don’t pay any attention or they notice different things. I have had Backstreet’s Back stuck in my head for 27 years, and thats not even the worst of it.

I ended up leaving with 4 books for $28. Spicer, Soyinka, Beckett, and a book from WSU tracking different migrations to Seattle. What I wanted changed as I moved through sections, put back Barthes, Waheed, Antipop Consortium, Kerouac. I left happy.