Stream of Consciousness writing of blog to a random song on my iTunes. Knowing that I will post this, hoping I have the good sense not to. This is the kind of thing we do in our writing class. I notice I am already editing. No more of that. David Grey sings White Ladder. This song reminds me of 8248 Latona Ave N. My mom. Jason. The backyard, Carise. Rupert. Carly came over for a visit. I was dating Daynatyah and Nathaniel. What ever happened to Nathaniel. What a doll. Torture soul. Smart kid. So many smart people out there. I wonder about feeling smart. People often say they are not smart. What do they know. What a relative thing. I hate this song. I never listen to it. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes me sad. It really brings me right back to that time. That house. My mom rented it. She had moved back from Bainbridge. Jason never lived there with her. He was in...where was he? With Dad I think. Carise was living in Bellingham and then also in Seattle. I was bouncing around from place to place. I am in Blue Lake California now. This writing exercise is really strange. I am feeling a bit totured by it. I said I would write until the song ended. The pages of text may not be free. I may not be free. That was proposed today. That I take my surroundings for granted. That I need to question if this sound I hear is really the sound of typing. And what exactly is that quality? What are other sounds that it reminds me of. No time to sit and listen because I have to keep writing in order to actually connect the quality. It sounds like a torture chamber clicking and clacking in the far off room. It sounds like shouts, it sounds like bugs chatter, it sounds like teeth chattering. It sounds like braces clacking as two teenager make out, in the back of a movie. It sounds like the life long profession of a woman from the nineteen twenties. Live is playing now. I alone. I think that accounts for the darkness. Of the images. I must apologize for my thoughts. They are not my own. I am a walking contradiction and incredibly apologetic for that. For being weird. Freak. So weird. And yet I am bleh in this city with all these clowns. Literally. A city of clowns. What a trip. I am falling from this precipice. If I sit for too long and let it come to me, I die. I fall off the surf board. How to feed the animal but get out of the way and let it steer.