Peace, Love, and Hope--
12/26/95
I rose before the sun yesterday. The sky in the East was already spiked golden out the kitchen window. I sat at the little table there, dismayed by the boring complexity of life or my life. I went back to bed. The sky had been beautiful, but it didn't matter.
I just need to make myself write and keep it up. I'm tired. I don't know why. Drained. When you say that life is torment, people think you're being dramatic, but the truth is that life is torment. Talking about it is for pussies, though.
Shirelle's moving in again. I'm afraid that's a big mistake. Weird how it's going to happen no matter what I think. That's a definition of life.
I feel like kicking the shit out of someone. I hate this feeling. This hatred behind my eyes. Nothing is as it should be. It's so many lies and contradictions and bullshit. You feel like rending flesh with your teeth,
Peace, love and hope--The big lies. The big untruths.
Enough of this negative bullshit. Let's just finish these three pages. It's only exercise to warm up. There was this thing about Carlos Casteneda in the paper today, synchronatic, as Castaneda inspired a character in the story I'm working on, since the man on the mastodon at the tarpits is sort of a Juan Matus Yaqui shaman, Chac Mool, never allows a photograph, or tape recording of his voice becuse it would fix him in time and place, and he wouldn't be able to go invisible; Stagancy is the antithesis to sorcery.
-What else? Saw the Yamashita's yesterday.
-What else? One of the orange caps for the mouthpiece of my inhaler is here on the desk. Maybe I ought to remember to replace it to its proper place. Great sentence.
-She and I don't relax well together.
There's the guitar tuner, the pocket knife, the big calendar, the inhaler, lighter, foil pipe, an entry tag from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the story from nine months ago about the trip to San Felipe, on which the instructor for my LAUSD writing class wrote:
"Exceeds standards...Firstly allow me to express how astonished I am at your incredible, prolific writing capabilities. I sat with my mouth open the entire time you were recounting your Mexican adventures. I was there! I was there! But I must say your 'f--king beaners' comment, though it was in jest, though you were all drunk and just having fun, I would not make a decision to submit that comment in a paper. Particularly to a person of color. I'm glad we got your final
draft in the anthology."
Paige Kendrix wrote that. I'm not sure she knows what prolific means.
I rose before the sun yesterday. The sky in the East was already spiked golden out the kitchen window. I sat at the little table there, dismayed by the boring complexity of life or my life. I went back to bed. The sky had been beautiful, but it didn't matter.
I just need to make myself write and keep it up. I'm tired. I don't know why. Drained. When you say that life is torment, people think you're being dramatic, but the truth is that life is torment. Talking about it is for pussies, though.
Shirelle's moving in again. I'm afraid that's a big mistake. Weird how it's going to happen no matter what I think. That's a definition of life.
I feel like kicking the shit out of someone. I hate this feeling. This hatred behind my eyes. Nothing is as it should be. It's so many lies and contradictions and bullshit. You feel like rending flesh with your teeth,
Peace, love and hope--The big lies. The big untruths.
Enough of this negative bullshit. Let's just finish these three pages. It's only exercise to warm up. There was this thing about Carlos Casteneda in the paper today, synchronatic, as Castaneda inspired a character in the story I'm working on, since the man on the mastodon at the tarpits is sort of a Juan Matus Yaqui shaman, Chac Mool, never allows a photograph, or tape recording of his voice becuse it would fix him in time and place, and he wouldn't be able to go invisible; Stagancy is the antithesis to sorcery.
-What else? Saw the Yamashita's yesterday.
-What else? One of the orange caps for the mouthpiece of my inhaler is here on the desk. Maybe I ought to remember to replace it to its proper place. Great sentence.
-She and I don't relax well together.
There's the guitar tuner, the pocket knife, the big calendar, the inhaler, lighter, foil pipe, an entry tag from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the story from nine months ago about the trip to San Felipe, on which the instructor for my LAUSD writing class wrote:
"Exceeds standards...Firstly allow me to express how astonished I am at your incredible, prolific writing capabilities. I sat with my mouth open the entire time you were recounting your Mexican adventures. I was there! I was there! But I must say your 'f--king beaners' comment, though it was in jest, though you were all drunk and just having fun, I would not make a decision to submit that comment in a paper. Particularly to a person of color. I'm glad we got your final
draft in the anthology."
Paige Kendrix wrote that. I'm not sure she knows what prolific means.
posted by johnz at 9:21 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home