"you will become an accomplished writer."

minneapolis, mn recieved 5-9 inches of snow this evening, starting around 1:00 pm.

as things quiet down i can hear the steady sound of cars stuck in the street outside my window. their horns bleating at the curbs of lyndale ave south trying desperately to unstick themselves and get to wherever they are headed. all the suburu's and neon's making a sound that i guess must be the mechanical equivalent of a panic attack, wheels waving to and fro in the snow globe of uptown, south minneapolis, the twin cities, greater minnesota.

today i said that the snow was an excuse for me not to leave the house, but the truth is, i haven't left the house in days anyway. i've been tempted all week to call up sarah and ben and tell them to count me in for the last minute week long trip to new orleans. ignore the hideous fact that i indeed have no money, no job, and the responsibility of financing a pretty serious move in close to one month. i still want out. which is a strange irony, because all i can think about is how i don't want to leave this house, it's uneven floors and crumbling walls. but for some reason, altough i can't leave my room for fear of some nameless threat just outside the door, there is one of those little men taylor always imagines controlling things inside our heads inside my skull, pushing on my cerebral cortex and shouting "GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!"
of my room, of my head, to the south, i'm not sure.

i keep watching these documentaries on the PBS website, about the stock market crash of 1929, the summer of love in san francisco, and the history of new orleans. maybe it's due to some kind of inner desire for realism, watching the documented realities of others therefore making it less pressing for me to pursue my own.

lately i have been finding a sick comfort in the way my index and middle fingers always smell like a crumpled up cigarette. not quite an ashtray, or a burnt up halfy stuck in the pack. it's more a syrupy kind of smoke, an earthy smell, sort of the way i imagine the soil must smell beneath the remains of a forest fire; like a week old campfire that you accidentally plunged your hands into while tripping on some branch.

someone told me recently that i write like a soldier, always running towards peace. i don't know about soldiers, but i know about the metaphysical manhunt for peace.

you can ask me anything you want, i probably don't know the answer any better than you, but it's nice to wonder together.