13 January 2011

thursday the thirteenth

I bought a typer. I've been typing daily. Sometimes I scan these pages and upload them to a flickr account. Sometimes I don't. Here is a page I typed today. I felt like posting it here would make it more important, I really don't know. It feels good to type. Those little lettered hammers hitting against paper, I have all the power in the world. Mostly I just talk to myself when I type. Some kind of journaling, some kind of soul-searching, some kind of honest-to-god-truth. This page is pretty ugly, content and physical appearance alike. I make mistakes, I use correction tape. I recycle all papers, now. That's something, right?

So here. Enlarge it:

01 January 2011

Flight 2087

IN FLIGHT the homes we live in, the buildings we work in, the highways we drive on all seem so small. the smallness reminds me how insignificant they are. in fact, this size seems more accurate to me. my view turns white. the plane is inside a cloud. it's overwhelming. i let my mouth open slowly and sigh even slower. everything is white. the diffused brightness feels like afterlife. i close my eyes and i can stil see the light. a grey spot. the clouds are thin here so whatever's underneath is affecting the color i see. before i boarded the plane i spilt hot coffee on myself. on my sweater & on my pants. my underwear are damp from the spill/ it was uncomfortable at first but now i don't mind it. there is a young boy seated in the row behind me. he's been drawing on a long paper pad with colored pencils since we boarded. i told him "i'm an artist" no, i'm not. i'm a liar. i'm a believer of self-doubt. i'm not what i want to be. the window to the right is white again. nothing but white. a ninety minute flight to california. that's where we all want to be. far away from the white. but it feels great to see nothing. it feels like being blind, maybe better. it's total blankness.