Go get a cookie, and some milk. Mom and the step-dad had a birthday party for the damn dog to-day. Can you believe it? No one came anyway. So there's a bunch of cookies left-over. It was a call-for-help, in a way, I realized, inviting over some friends, eventhough for the stupidest reason, in order to relieve their dissatisfaction a bit, their loneliness I suppose.
Go have a cigarette. Come back and...
I forgot. Come back and write, I think I meant to say. But I'm already writing now, before the cigarette.
Browsing through Twitter this passed hour, at my old tweets from now till just before winter, I recognized a change. My thoughts were strong back then even. That hasn't changed. Which is good. But I've since gained confidence—let's say. I'm molding my reality myself ruthlessly. The conversations on Twitter have changed. I used to be only commenting on others's tweets, their ideas, adding insights inspired by others's words. That's changed. Now, I'm a part of creating the actual conversation, I realized, on which to be commented, insights to be added.
I feel powerful, to be true. Though I must be wary of this, I know. I typed to myself in my drafts on Twitter the other day, even, before realizing this, from that Nirvana song, "I feel stupid, and contagious."
I never next a Nirvana song, I've noticed—just saying, I don't know.
Anyway, that was last night. I went for the cigarette, grabbed a beer left-over from the party—2 beers actually, that Leinenkugal's Summer Shandy, which is tasty, but of which you can't buy a buzz—and I sat outside for a bit. It was 3 in the morning, about. The solstice just passed. At about 3:30, there, the fauna began to come alive slowly, the early birds began their warbling, rousting from their rousts. There was the faintest touch of light in the horizon in the east. But it was still dark mostly.
I thought briefly of Scotland. Where I was last year for the solstice, just passing through, the plane back to the States. And I've had Scottish friends with whom I've chat on the internet. But I never knew this. That the sun is out all night there round the solstice, in Scotland, stuck in a little corner of the sky, like an eternal sunset for hours, till it fully rises again in the morning—or whatever it does, I never saw it rise in the morning, sleeping. Like Portugal, the stunning, raw beauty there, mostly untouched by shit American industry. How I had Portuguese friends too, and they'd never told me this amazing thing. Because it's just normal to them. It was strange seeing it hang there, the sun in the sky still, at like 2 in the morning as I looked for some bushes in which to crawl, to sleep, outside the airport there. And I slept so wonderfully, I remember. Scotland is wonderful. I'd been on the beach near the ocean for months. Which was a bit of a desert environment, there in Portugal. But Scotland is lush, and damp, and green, and cool.
The air last night was so fragrant. When the sky finally lit a bit, I could see the overcast gray clouds. Though there were no stars too. It was damp and cool. But I could nearly taste all the life in the air, by smelling. It was wonderful. And I realized, that the best time to smell life in the air is on a damp, overcasted summer morning.
And then I read a bit, this wonderful old book recommended in one of the introductions to van Gogh's letters, the 3 volumes through which I'm still working, Charles Blanc, about color-theory, art-theory, in his "Grammar." I had it sent me from one of the university libraries, this "Grammar"—and those unabridged letters of van Gogh too. It was printed in 1891, this Blanc "Grammar." The damn book is disintegrating as I read the damn thing. Damnit. I was pissed when I saw its condition when I went to pick-it-up at the library—which is at the job, a tiny little perk that I'll soon lose, that I have access to Illinois's entire library-system, which is like the 11th largest in the nation, behind Harvard, Boston, Congress, all that. I almost told that weird little librarian to just send it back. I don't want to read it like that, so carefully having to flip from page to page. But I thought she'd burst into tears, the little muppit. So I took the damn thing and carried it home—to my mother's—in a little box they had for it, in the backpack. But I'm glad I did. It's about painting mostly, but can be applied to all art, I think. Especially writing, since I'm still convinced writing and painting are so simlar.
At the kitchen table typing now. I handwrote that above in a notebook. Which I love, writing by hand. And I'm copying to the computer. Which I hate. The nephew is just in the front room.
Good I'm down here, typing, writing. Good for him to see. Better than that iPad to which he's still so attached, watching YouTube videos, and the example the step-dad sets, sitting down there on the couch with a bag of potato chips, glued to the 81 inch TV he has down there. Maybe one day the nephew, when his mind is tormented in boredom, will remember old uncle Andrew sitting down there at the table, drawing and coloring and writing, and such. He sees the books piled-up every time he comes up to the garret. I yell at him to stop jumping on that bed. You'll ruin the books, I say. They're not mine.
Later, I'll probably march-over to grandma's, when dad and the girlfriend get-off of work. I'd wanted to go there yesterday, to escape that damn dog's birthday party. But they were going out to Hooters to eat, dad and the girlfriend. And I had zero desire to go there, really. Or to go out to some bar or something afterwards probably. And it seems they were looking to escape their dissatisfaction as well, dad and the girlfriend, like mom and the step-dad, and had to get out of the house, grandma's, on a Friday night especially.