kindergarchy.

i remember polly scattergood being one of the first artists that seemed at that time to me an amalgamation of writing, boundless freedom, and creative freedom; but mostly writing. one of the first few posts in this blog was of her poem that was being put up on her myspace page. she wrote songs too that i now could not remember how it was like when it was hummed although i used to listen to it repeatedly. i do not remember the words either, but i remember something about her poem. it says about setting an apartment on fire and i think it was how she represented freedom which literally followed after, a few lines or maybe right after that line; so it must be it. i would not say i could put her poem in a clearly bounded box of either complete coherence or complete lack of coherence because coherence is a continuum. we all fall somewhere, in the middle of it more inclined toward the extreme or the opposite. some things fall entirely out of it. like when you are not sure and when you just don't know, you can't say why you think it does not belong anywhere even after creating a continuum but it has to be included nevertheless. so you start asking around.

i roll myself out of the bed and get myself some water. i think about soliptipism and the colors in a video which has the word as its title. aren't a lot of things in life arbitrary? i would like to think arbitrariness falls somewhere in the red zone, closer toward the extreme incoherency. life is not a puzzle but we all hope someone would solve it for us someday. perhaps a key person, your spiritual double, or simply a prescribed higher being that offers an endless pouring of consolation. some days it's hard not to believe, some days it's not. some days it's not easy to tolerate arbitrariness--accident, happenstance, meetings and separations. sometimes it's difficult to not believe that how you say hello for the first time or how some similar incident happens--you believe in this--has altered your life forever. but memory is a moldy piece of shit and the window through which you are looking out is foggy. you try everyday to scrub all the dew and dust and vomit out of it but it still remains foggy, as if fogginess was an inherent quality of the glass itself.