Julian London

There are angels in your angles
There's a low moon caught in your tangles
There's a ticking at the sill
There's a purr of a pigeon to break the still of day

As on we go drowning
Down we go away
And darling, we go a-drowning
Down we go away
Away

There's a tough word on your crossword
There's a bed bug nipping a finger
There's a swallow, there's a calm
Here's a hand to lay on your open palm today

As on we go drowning
Down we go away
And darling, we go a-drowning
Down we go away
Away

There are angels in your angles
There's a low moon caught in your tangles


The Decemberists really wrapped up this thought for me. I wonder.

Today I went outside to read underneath a tree.

And met a squirrel. It was not your average I-eat-nuts-and-do-lots-of-general-scurrying squirrel. It was an I-own-this-tree-and-you-have-just-stepped-into-a-war-zone squirrel. It was like some squirrel scaled Nam flashback. There were bits of bark flying and the little fuzzy-tailed bomber was barking and raising ten kinds of hell.

I didn't stay long.

I named him Canberra.

Right here. Right now.

( Private inner workings. )

I'm a little disappointed with Only Revolutions. At first, I was intrigued by its extremely unique look-the way one would need to rotate the book every 8 pages and read a few pages of each story to really take in the story at its best. The poetic stream of consciousness was also something I looked forward to but after a while I lost interest.

House of Leaves was so good. Only Revolutions had a wonderful concept but didn't hold my interest. It just didn't have the same depth and left a lot to be desired.

And, I thought about picking up A Million Little Pieces but decided, instead, to pick up an old favorite. The Talisman by Stephen King is just one of those books....I suppose.

...Maybe Ella knows of some good books.

I wonder how she's fairing with the one I gave her...

If I were small, plastic, and square, where would I be?

I've looked every where-under, over, and through. Pockets, rugs, coats, boxes, books-all devoid of my ID.

What did I do with it?

And if I didn't do anything with it, what would someone else do with it? Check out books and never bring them back? Jimmie doors with it? Use it as a bookmark? A book mark in the books they plan to never return?

And what sort of trouble would I be in to go make a new one?

...Maybe I should read my book.

I wish I could think of an appropriate book quote to start this off and break the incredible tension held just between my words on a page and the page itself but I can't. It will just have to wait.

I spent the day unpacking-which was strange. I've never moved before in my life. I've never even ventured out on a sleep over. It's a little overwhelming-my room smells like pinesol and I share a bathroom with several other people. And Donny keeps calling me to offer advice about how to meet people. He keeps saying "Even if you start to stutter, it can't be any worse than peeing your pants in the first grade, Chewie."

I think I'll stay in my room. It's late anyway.

I picked up the new Terry Pratchett before boarding the plane. And I think I'll try to get some writing done tonight. I'm really excited about the creative writing course the school offers.

I think Death Cab for Cutie says it best:
Because in my head there's a Greyhound station
Where I send my thoughts to far-off destinations
So they may have a chance of finding a place
Where they're far more suited than here