The Art of Robert Edward Sullivan in July

The first year of my Life began last year. July 12th, actually. July of this year has swooped in and I keep taking steps forward. And it's the good kind of forward. Not the false forward. Not the forward that ends up being backwards. Sometime during the very early hours of July 5th of this year, I said to myself--I look at myself in the mirror, and said words directed to myself as if myself was some other self, and I asked--no, I didn't ask, I stated to myself...this is my life. This is my Life. Capital "L" Life. Fun times.

July Title

Best Fourth...technically Fifth of July ever.

Interpolation vs Extrapolation: A Study of Data Sets For a Modern Portrait of the Artist as a Young-ish Man

Brand new repeats in my day, my life. Repeats I have never had before (thus the new part) that warm me, brighten me, etc me. Insert bounce into step. Repeat. Bright warm me, bouncing through my day, my life.

It has been a while since I have barfed out words onto the page. It has been a while since I've used the word "barf" or any form of the word "barf." (Incidentally, it has been a while since I've barfed.) But this metaphor, this usage and repetition of "barf" suggests that words are just spilling, or erupting, without intent (though, barfing does not inherently suggest there is no intention, as there are times when you intend to barf) without consent. It suggests the page is a gutter, a toilet (ideally one that flushes down, not a urinal in a shady, shitty bar at 1:50 a.m.), a sink, or a waste basket. Or at worst, one's self. It also suggests that there was something (ideally, food and/or massive amounts of fruit punch and vodka) ingested, mixed, in the process of being broken down that has been rejected from the body. Maybe not rejected, just sent back, unnecessary, or just too much of something ingested, mixed, not needing to be broken down. Is this metaphor, this idea, this repeat, this comma talk, apt? Perhaps.

Regardless, I am barfing words up right now. Good ones. Here. Also there.  I find myself writing things like "I find myself smiling a lot, lots of bounce in my steps" and such. I find myself hyper-aware of all my "and such"'s and that's okay. Regardless, I've had repeats in my life that I would not care to repeat. But in this current mode, this current tense, my repeats are new. Brand new. And awesome.

Get Your Fix On

Another trucker story. (In issue 13)

Ignore This Subject Line

Ignore this story.

This Will (Should) Probably Be the Last One of These Types (I Guess)

Raymond Carver opening; my stuff on the lawn, but no dancing. No Will Ferrel movie version. Other shoes where my shoes went, other moments where mine, ours, used to be. Our house, our bed, our Oregon, our story-- something different now. Just a prologue, apparently, but now separate. Other shapes and shadows occupy the space where mine had stood, sat, slept, ate, laughed and loved. And was loved. Deconstructing through rearranging, replacing through building over the old, is something I don't have the ability to do. I really don't. I'm terrible at it. I don't find and replace, erase, or try to forget. I had thought that was the worst thing ever, to distort those memories, or worse, lose them. Worse than just being somebody on a list, worse than being a poem in a collection of poems, including ones--I'm sure--about those who helped take something special from me. So I don't make overt steps to cover up those memories and moments by creating new ones right directly over the old. Or pretend they weren't there. But lying is a form of pretending and maybe I need to get better at lying to myself. At pretending. Then I could tell myself, I could pretend, that one day I could replace, forget, not-think-about. That would be easier, make it simpler to go about the world. Like, I could drink a sloe gin fizz, in Portland, Oregon, with someone else, create something new that would replace the old. Like someone else's slippers. Maybe that's all takes. I suppose that would make things easier. For some, it's all about what's easy, or what's easiest. And why should I be any different? At the very least, it would make it easier to order a sloe gin fizz.

Sunday Night Muse

I should probably preface this: I have had way too much to drink on way too empty of stomach. My routines were rippled and altered to the point that I don't know what the day is or the time, etc.If that's something one can ever know.  It's good to know, however,  that people that weren't my family I still think of as family, and they still think of me the same. First Street Hugs. Warms me up. I've had such a tough time with the latest story, but have not been more excited about a story as I am with this one. Too close to home, I guess, in some ways, in many ways. But I keep working at it. Damn her.

Also on my mind: 3am calls from far away places is an acceptable reason to be tired, up all night reading is acceptable, staring at the walls listening to worn out playlists...hmm, not so much. Not as much. It's tough to cut something out, when that something seems pretty damn important. Always has. Certainly seemed important at the time.  I'm slightly worried-- as worried one can be on a slight level-- how much I just don't care. How much I want to not care. To remove elements that make me care.  I have always loved The Stranger, but never because I thought it was an ideal way to live life. But maybe it is. When you give everything, you give your whole and complete self, and then everything is lost, or taken, or shat upon, then what are you really left with? Nothing, I suppose.