burgoynealexburgoyne

Sometimes you have to
break the monotony; MORE
syllable writing!

I’m finished with (“)things with things(“), both the piece and the concept. The piece is not good. You will never hear it. You may experience the concept.

Have you ever had a day that was free of dread? Even that I-don’t-want-to-oh-here-he-comes-gosh-I-hate-talking-to-people sort of dread?

I was thinking about being a child and remembering lying a lot. Fabricating myths about injuries or relatives or whathaveyou. I remember doing it and getting this huge rush of anxiety about being found out. I don’t think I really LIKED it but I was sort of addicted to it. I think I’m still addicted to it. It is AMAZING how much you can get done when you feel like your life will explode if you don’t. I think maybe if you’re lucky you develop the ability or a thick skin to both accomplish things and not almost blow your brain up with anxiety. Maybehopefully.

I like it when something overlaps something else and there’s the space in between (like a venn diagram!) and that space in between is sort of confused but can be REALLY awesome.

Then there’s this shrimp. Wtf…

Drinking is fun but
hangover’s are not. I think
one outweighs: other.

I passed my sort of culmination cumulative oral exams yesterday which sort of signifies the end of grad school. It has been a difficult (embarrassingly…) experience to talk about for some reason. Some things were good, some great, some dumb. Hooray for finishing what you start. Hooray for starting new things bigger and stronger. Hooray for being more aware today than I was yesterday of how little I know and how exciting it is to know that.

I wish I did half
of what I wish I did. That
I did what I wished.

Sings well, has good style
So I came, listened awhile
Young, stranger: my eyes

Strum my pain: fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly

Flush: fever, scared: crowd
Reading my letters out loud
Wish: finish – kept on.

Strum my pain: fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly

I wrote this for a piece that Aaron Quinn wrote this summer. It was meant to be a sort of mumble in the context of a large ensemble. So when you read it, you should mumble it quietly to yourself. Like you’re talking to your collarbone.

White walls are bare only when you see them. If given a choice, I’m sure they would be full. The existence that they’ve choice up to this point, in the particular reality, are that they are bare. White walls are bare only when you see them. White walls are bear. White walls are rivers and moons colliding with no real evidence of choice. They are trees birthing ideas birthing peanut butter birthing reality. White walls are canvases for writing or for looking or for building an idea for building an idea for building an idea. White walls are bears in the heat and white in the cold and white walls are for building an idea for building an idea. A monumental moment mesmerizing moons and white walls and the truth from bare fiction or from bear fiction, which is always about things bears would never do but not what you would do bare. White walls represent repentance and repeal and white walls shine but not convincingly or upliftingly or lifting up. White walls lift up. I lift up white walls. I lift up. I breathe life up. I breathe live, up. Up, live I breathe. I breathe live, up. Up, up, up. I breathe live. I breathe live. I breathe, live up, live. I live. I live, live. I breathe live. I live up. I, up, live. I breathe live in white walls. I see white walls. I live in white walls. I breathe in white walls. I breathe, lifted up in white walls. White walls. White walls, up, live. White walls, I breathe in. I breathe in. I breathe in white walls. Breathe white walls up. Breathe up. Live up. Breathe up. Breath, up. Breath. Breath. Breath. White walls allow you to breathe. Take breaths. White walls are for an idea about an idea about an idea. Steps away from an idea for an idea. White walls are the in and out and the in and out and the in and out. They’re bare. White walls are bare only when you see them.

This post is number
two-hundred and one. I am
grateful people read.

Generally and I guess
specifically. I’m dumb.

The road to success;
for me: a day off, two, three…
Time to rest my brain.

Step one: recital
Despite lack of prep: going
Live up or live down…