Really Pretty Lame
1-31-96 W
Outside it's raining, but there ain't nothing to in this house to drink but non-fat milk, tapwater, and that generic coffee liquer.
3-5-96
I've really been a pussy here, haven't I? A month without writing. It's a rainy Saturday. Chimelle just went to Santa Monica with a boy. I've got a hockey game on- Colorady Avalanche hosting the New York Rangers. Two good teams.
I've been embarrassed lately. I've never much cared about embarrassment, even though I'm so frequently embarrassing. Wha---
Gramma Vera is in the hospital. Her aorta is torn. Sounds like her time is coming. I think she wants it. She speaks of being reunited with passed loved ones.
So that's about the size of it. I'm going to visit the Fowler Museum at UCLA anc check out the exhibit of voodoo for that baseball/voodoo story I want to do. I ought to do some reasearch on Satchel Paige. I think also Branch Rickey will be in it.
The Avalance is burying the Rangers 7-1.
I've been imagining a barrel,
gagging, cold steel, against uvula
not, a minor comic compulsion
compared to nothing
which includes couches and television
It takes too long to write these three pages. I need to do it in fifteen minutes. I should whip through it, then balance the checkbook, then do fifteen minutes on the word processor, then go to the museum and the bookstore, then go to Placentia or maybe just only go to Placentia.
What am I thinking? If grandma is to die, she may want to be surrounded by loved ones when she goes.
How does death move the living?
That story really is pretty lame. Everything I show people, I don't hear back from them. I feel weak. My back aches. I might just read for a bit. Try to finish Dylan Thomas.
How long?
Outside it's raining, but there ain't nothing to in this house to drink but non-fat milk, tapwater, and that generic coffee liquer.
3-5-96
I've really been a pussy here, haven't I? A month without writing. It's a rainy Saturday. Chimelle just went to Santa Monica with a boy. I've got a hockey game on- Colorady Avalanche hosting the New York Rangers. Two good teams.
I've been embarrassed lately. I've never much cared about embarrassment, even though I'm so frequently embarrassing. Wha---
Gramma Vera is in the hospital. Her aorta is torn. Sounds like her time is coming. I think she wants it. She speaks of being reunited with passed loved ones.
So that's about the size of it. I'm going to visit the Fowler Museum at UCLA anc check out the exhibit of voodoo for that baseball/voodoo story I want to do. I ought to do some reasearch on Satchel Paige. I think also Branch Rickey will be in it.
The Avalance is burying the Rangers 7-1.
I've been imagining a barrel,
gagging, cold steel, against uvula
not, a minor comic compulsion
compared to nothing
which includes couches and television
It takes too long to write these three pages. I need to do it in fifteen minutes. I should whip through it, then balance the checkbook, then do fifteen minutes on the word processor, then go to the museum and the bookstore, then go to Placentia or maybe just only go to Placentia.
What am I thinking? If grandma is to die, she may want to be surrounded by loved ones when she goes.
How does death move the living?
That story really is pretty lame. Everything I show people, I don't hear back from them. I feel weak. My back aches. I might just read for a bit. Try to finish Dylan Thomas.
How long?
posted by johnz at 9:56 AM
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