Sketchbook fragments Condensed first half of a writing journal December 2001 – July 2004 Compiled September 2004 crowds are open to judgement (waking began so i can live we liberated our coffee grounds coffee cup the 29th of june i could sit here painting fences and we're sorry in progress, barreling downhill i mean, calm and dirty, sleepy rolling my eyes biting my nails to the sea—everything every type of horse how this imagery functions the clean white background the surface, scarred burning the earth underneath our feet how it fools us every fragment of the city hallways stretch forever i close my eyes again and crash this car away from the associations of the suburban-kid mentality i live here too our freedom lives in progress there'd be birds that don't know the difference walls with their exposed studs DIY flyers and underground zines a pointless errand run i'll couch-hop and live in my car if we are american a life in the default singing inside my head the kitchen smells like the sound of a weight asleep but underneath the eyelid throwing the spectacle mechanism the effect was minimal like another phase i don't know how writing can steal your soul if you don't also take time to read Untitleds crossing the intersection in my car, listening to talk radio about supreme court nominations, I hear my brakes squeak a high pitched noise. The sun shines through the clouds. I'm on my way to breakfast. People pass me on foot, bike or by car. I pass buildings which hold people sleeping, businesses or the belongings of people who have left for the day. I light a cigarette. I feel tired. I click my turn signal to change lanes. I hear the ticking and merge successfully, thinking, “all these normal things seem so strange, out of place. Everything common seems foreign today.” I drive to the coffee shop, calmly eat my breakfast and sip my coffee. Getting back into the car, I drive to the highway, towards United Hospital in St. Paul, to meet my family in the waiting room, where all of us will be wondering if my brother will live to see the next day. October 2005 Girls link arms with the boys beside them, sharing umbrellas, and run into the street yelling “wooo!” I walk inside, music coming through the door to the performance space. I shyly smile at a girl sitting at a table by the counter, she shoots me a cold look and returns to her homework. I get back to my notebook. Me, and a pen, and a lot of analyzing thoughts to serve as my own umbrella under everyone else's sky as I link arms with myself and tip back the rest of my beer, yelling to myself in my head, “whatever.” walk aside and miles wide i found a way to spend my time and scratched it into stone threw it off a bridge watched her smile and walked away and today, with the tapping in the distance I grab at the air I gasp for ideas I pull enough strength together to get out of bed so i can sit in a chair and stare at the horizon when these days are over the young ones will still be laughing and i'll finish up. One last crazy dream for the road back home to nothingness In a way, art is like being married to boredom. You spend all your time together and make children. I don't know. Maybe not.