1-29-96
I haven't written here for 3 days and haven't cared. The thread of this journal, if there was one, has frayed. I come to it uninspired. My life is trivial. Anyway...
I went up to Northridge to watch the Superbowl with my brother and his friends. Evil defeated good as Dallas beat Pittsburgh. We ourselves played a pretty good game of touch football in the park beforehand.
Mike talked about the night that Ivan, the former Belgian Congo Guerilla fighter who lives in the same building, came to Mike's apartment at two AM, drunk, and waving his Glock around screaming at Mike and Angel to turn down the music. Mike and Angel were both high as the Himalayas. All Angel could do was giggle...
Also Mike talked about showing up to football practice in the Corvettes and Saabs he and Chase and Goodman repo-ed...Three giant Baby-Huey-looking motherfuckers with mullets, barrelling down the freeway at a buck twenty, "chillin', high..."
Shirelle has been complaining to me that she's not happy and it's my fault. She just makes me angry anymore. I want to end it, especially if she's unhappy. Why bother? But she cries and moans so pathetically it sounds fake. I don't get why she doesn't just dump me and move on to someone more footloose and fancy-free. I know my personality won't fit her in the long run. I can be the life of the party-guy once in a while, but usually I just want to be alone and read and write. She's determined though to fit me into the mold of her romantic ideal, picnics on the beach, etc. where my poor conversational skills make the situation so awkward I feel almost panicky in my need to escape.
I'm out of dope. Ain't that a shame?
These Dylan Thomas poems are frustrating. They don't make sense in any literal way. The words seem spilled on the page, their order drawn from a hat. Yet the words are so rich in connotation, , their juxtapositon conjures imagery that might otherwise take pages and pages to describe. It takes effort to keep in mind his poems' themes and try to plug in the odd intricacies of each word as you read them, a lot like reading Joyce. Thomas's poems, though, contain this melding of old and new, Wordsworth in the twentieth century, where the pre-womb and post-grave mysteries struggle against the dominance of electric wires and modern medicine. Scientists seem only to change the terms of life's great mysteries without coming any closer to explaining them than the wizards and prophets and poets and crackpots of less enlightened ages ever did.
I forgot to read the Bible yesterday, so I'm gonna do it now.
I haven't written here for 3 days and haven't cared. The thread of this journal, if there was one, has frayed. I come to it uninspired. My life is trivial. Anyway...
I went up to Northridge to watch the Superbowl with my brother and his friends. Evil defeated good as Dallas beat Pittsburgh. We ourselves played a pretty good game of touch football in the park beforehand.
Mike talked about the night that Ivan, the former Belgian Congo Guerilla fighter who lives in the same building, came to Mike's apartment at two AM, drunk, and waving his Glock around screaming at Mike and Angel to turn down the music. Mike and Angel were both high as the Himalayas. All Angel could do was giggle...
Also Mike talked about showing up to football practice in the Corvettes and Saabs he and Chase and Goodman repo-ed...Three giant Baby-Huey-looking motherfuckers with mullets, barrelling down the freeway at a buck twenty, "chillin', high..."
Shirelle has been complaining to me that she's not happy and it's my fault. She just makes me angry anymore. I want to end it, especially if she's unhappy. Why bother? But she cries and moans so pathetically it sounds fake. I don't get why she doesn't just dump me and move on to someone more footloose and fancy-free. I know my personality won't fit her in the long run. I can be the life of the party-guy once in a while, but usually I just want to be alone and read and write. She's determined though to fit me into the mold of her romantic ideal, picnics on the beach, etc. where my poor conversational skills make the situation so awkward I feel almost panicky in my need to escape.
I'm out of dope. Ain't that a shame?
These Dylan Thomas poems are frustrating. They don't make sense in any literal way. The words seem spilled on the page, their order drawn from a hat. Yet the words are so rich in connotation, , their juxtapositon conjures imagery that might otherwise take pages and pages to describe. It takes effort to keep in mind his poems' themes and try to plug in the odd intricacies of each word as you read them, a lot like reading Joyce. Thomas's poems, though, contain this melding of old and new, Wordsworth in the twentieth century, where the pre-womb and post-grave mysteries struggle against the dominance of electric wires and modern medicine. Scientists seem only to change the terms of life's great mysteries without coming any closer to explaining them than the wizards and prophets and poets and crackpots of less enlightened ages ever did.
I forgot to read the Bible yesterday, so I'm gonna do it now.
posted by johnz at 9:26 PM
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