elwood

I miss poetry spontaneous prose the immediate need to put pen to paper before the mind releases brief inspiration and the urge is gone.

I miss poetry Beat obsession... Infatuation Kerouac's Cassidy lust the burn to pour heart onto endless page to live to breathe to ignite a flash fire of momentary motivation.

Taqueria Friday nightNewly inspired Ginsberg breathe of unrequited longing a love of one so magnanimous that my own heart must seem completely insignificant entirely unnoticed in the endless sea of admiration that most certainly surrounds her. A newly arisen hunger I have not felt for eighteen months a lust for life long forgotten. (No Iggy reference intended, but well accepted, none the less.)

I have a new habit (or, at least, an only recently noticed tendency) of analyzing what insecurities have led any particular girl to date whatever guy she happens to be with. It often makes me feel sorry for the vast majority of american women; to have to deal with the innate douche-baggery of the excessively insecure. . We are a puscified bunch.
And, it makes me wonder who she's been seeing, and whether or not he's treating her right. I'm crazy about her, and I want to be everything she has ever wanted. Needed. Longed for. Loved. I have missed her so much, and yet I can barely bring myself to speak to her, and it feels like I am excommunicated from my own heart.

The incredibly attractive young asian girl eyeballing me from across the room makes me sad. I feel sorry for her. She sits with a sad clich - the shaven head white guy with a goatee - and longs for someone with far more substance to their soul. (Or, at least someone who doesn't try to communicate from English to Spanish by speaking far too loudly and adding an "o" to the end of every other word.)

I need a new pen.

I don't know what to do here, which is not a terribly uncommon circumstance in this increasingly long and droning life of mine, but now it seems so much worse. For the first time in my life, I have a solid understanding of what I want in life, and, for the most part, I know how to get there, but I have so little confidence that I can pull it off. It almost makes me wish Ayn Rand was still alive.
I suppose a significant amount of motivation has been provided in the presence of an unfortunate forty-four year old relying on his only-recently-acquired brother-in-law for work. Fairly well spoken passions for the sea, a landlocked soul so obviously crying to set sail, (in a sad sacrifice of decent prose for the sake of alliteration, my sincerest apologies), and he's stuck in Austin, spending his time drunk and discussing old used-to-be's and a future that will never come.

The table across the room converses over the lack of late-night coffee shops in this particular part of town a mere two lots away from the building in which I want to open that very thing, here in this sad substitute - a late night taqueria in south Austin.