1001 Disco Days

I'm walking in the cemetery Calvary Cemetery, trying to dance, it's been a while, right when I enter in a lady in a hatchback an old Russian woman pulls up next to me and tells me not to listen to my headphones, because it will hurt my ears, I said thank you I will keep it down, she said, no, even then, not a good idea to jog with headphones on. I said thank you. She drove next to me for a while and watched me and then slowly moved ahead, but very slowly watching me in her rear view for about five minutes. Then bothered by my own commentary on a friend's poem on Facebook I stopped to change it, and realize the more I try to change my comment the deeper I'm digging myself. then I see a sculpture, relief, inside try to dance again but I stop when I see a relief on a gravestone, it's the likeness of a young girl who died at seven years old in 1939, and I see all of the pain of the father there, it is too much to bear, just then I get a text from Quinn saying I thought ...

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/features/chuck-berry-inside-father-of-rocks-triumphs-scandals-w475260

This morning I put Hot Chip's "Coming On Strong" onto the record player. Then I used it as a background to sing over, mostly with Sofia's stories of persuasion. It was a kind of spontaneous art.  I was being an artist.Then I listened back to the entire album with my vocals over the top and danced to it. I was dancing to my own art.     leaen arto!    note in this persuasive letter Sofia is thinking of her friend and winter, then imagining it is summer and she is playing on the beach with her friend, which all leads to a beautiful interpretatio of the sun.

5 AM.  I dreamed last night that Third Man Records had invited me and some other poets to read after a Jack White Concert in an old Masonic theater. It's a big deal so all of my family is coming, including Great Grandma Betty who has made a special trip.  Jack starts playing early so I scramble for a seat. I sit high up on the left side of the theater, nearly in the rafters, next to a blond bearded dad and his 3 kids. We chat and become quick friends. I see my grandmother being wheeled in on the other side of the room by my mom and uncle. I wonder what she thinks of Jack's guitar playing? My new friend points out to me the sayings written on the walls of the theater. They are theories of life written by children. I read a few, nod, and tell him that I have been formulating my own theory. "There needs to be a new name for love," I tell him. "It's confusing because love is the name of two opposite things. You love what you are attracted to, which is ...

If Knausgaard can do 5 pages a day, I can do 1. All morning long I have been listening to the end of Karl Ove Knausgaard's “Man In Love.” He writes five pages a day. How can I keep up with that shit? I can't even keep up with my own mind. Knausgard is living it, living literature. Not by trying to, but by writing about it and giving it that second extra layer, outside looking in. So yeah, Knausgaard. And it’s a great book. Man In Love. Stand alone great. The best account I know of of the vast difference between falling in love and staying in love. I mean from feeling it to not feeling it to learning to feel it in a deeper way. All the way to the end. Shit, Knausgaard. He really did it. Brought artifice to his life and vice versa. That book is a mother. I mean, the first one, about his childhood and the death of his father was good. It was good enough that it felt like my own memory by the end. And it also presages memories to come (of my dad dying.) And then ther...

 almost too much