Rachel Carman

Hey there.
I just looked myself up on google. It tries to correct me. Asks me: Did you mean: Rachel Carson? And I say to myself. No. It tells me about other Rachel Carman's. One has gotten a divorce. On a closer read I find she was the earliest divorce on record in Sangamon County. The lawyer in the divorce case was Abraham Lincoln.
There's a Rachel Carman from Bristol, England who Twitters and likes anime.
Eventually you get to the gold.
Look up Rachel Lee Carman and there you have it. Everything. Even this blog. Which is basically a clean non-pen smeared version of my notebook. So I guess you can't get everything. You can't get my notebook.
But it still asks: Did you mean: Rachel Carson?
She's a tough act to follow, I tell you.

Imperfection

I want to make perfect things. I want to make perfect zines. Maybe I have to make a lot of imperfect riff raff until I hit gold and start making perfect things. But it seems perfection is something that would always be there. Perhaps I will make imperfect zines forever. I am trying to finish my zine today and I feel like it's sucking big time.

Writing

My writing hasn't felt very solid lately. That's the word I was looking for. Solid. They don't feel like they have all the pieces I want in them, they don't feel finished. They feel like you could take some and add some and then it would easily not be mine at all. I am writing something very transparent and vague, my pieces are meek, shruggling and excusing themselves on the page, waiting for you to judge them so they have some meaning, because my writing is requiring and shrinking for your judgment.
Okay, so here's the thing I am not telling Kevin right now. I just told him; this and that, I hate my writing, I'm going to burn my zine la la la and he kind of asks why even though he knows I'm just being dramatic.
I'm not telling him I am ashamed of not being marketable.
Kevin is drawing maps right now. I am blogging. We are listening to Tool. It's the new one. I am drinking wine. Kevin is not drinking wine.
"Would you like me to put some water on?"
shrugs, "if you want. I'd like some. I don't want you to stress yourself out about it."
"why would I stress myself out?"
shakes head. inaudible.
"What's that?"
"Just making sure you want it."
"I just wanted to know if you wanted some.."
"Just didn't want you to be that concerened about my well being. It's been awhile since I've drewn, draw. Since I've drawn."
I put on the water. My tea kettle is yellow. I got it last year for my birthday. 22. I always keep it clean. Sometimes, when I do to other people houses and see dirty tea kettles I feel disgusted. Burned tea kettles, oily tea kettles from being next to frying bacon. A real tea drinker has a spotless kettle.
What I really want to know how to do is write. I want to be able to write. Write well. Writers are magic.
Just about anyone can see something happen. They can watch a car wreck with the same passion as watching a basketball game, they can make love the way they would stand in line at the grocery store. But a writer, aa damn good story teller like Lia or my Dad (who, like Homer, never writes their damn stories down) makes that fucking experience real. And I am not that person. I get lost in the WORDS. The damn words. I trip up on them like a spider in its own web. And then I get even more tangled when go back and edit that shit.
What I'm trying to say is, I can't hash it all, but I don't know what to do exactly... writing is me. It's not just what I've defined myself around, it's the thing that forgoes me from food and water. It's the thing that takes me hours away from this world.
Writing. What the hell.

A late night thought

Laying on the couch in my brothers apartment in Springfield, Oregon and I am unable to sleep trying to think of how dipped candles are made. Two in the morning, people are running water, the harrowing rushing sound of moving water, pipes connected (if I empty the toilet perhaps we can talk like they do in prisons? Head in the bowl, tapping messages, whispering jail break secrets...) but really I am thinking about National Geographic writers and the how they do what they do. They are the white wick dipping again and again into the hot pool of liquid wax- immersing themselves in Bosnia, Ireland, Pandas, Beiruit, Mummies of Mayan sacrifices found on the sides of mountains or any one the articles I've read in the past week. The writers immerse themselves in layers of their subject matter. . .