Quicksand of Couch
May 29, 1996 Thursday--no, Wednesday
What? Cobwebs and nothing. A softball game tonight with my brother. Tomorrow he graduates from Cal State Northridge. He's having a big party Saturday night.
There's a bruise on my thigh. Probably got it drunk last weekend. Is my brain void of cells? I don't have a single thought or opinion.
Reading JC, though, I was marginally pleased with its development, but it has stalled now after he has gotten high and watched the porno. I need to consider the significance of these two acts. They're not sins, really, are they? But they are improper, aren't they? Is there a point in this?
Should he leave before anyone finds him. What are his thoughts here? What's his through-line? He doesn't want to go anywhere. THE QUICKSAND OF COUCH Find that one passage in last month's journal, soliloquoy the state of affairs. Don't speak with Adam until after he gets fired. Not caught masturbating. Interrupted by thoughts of mom teaching prayers - A growl for dinner over the sound of the TV interrupts.
Where does he go home to? Who's there? I need a fuckin' cabin. I need to be able to spread out my papers and absorb myself in this stuff without interruption. Maybe that Arizona Fellowship. I wish there was no softball today. Today and tomorrow are already used up. I won't be left alone on Friday.
I could go for a bong hit. Mrs. Camus' class is learning a dance for the Neil Simon tune "Coming to American" to perfrom in the Multicultural Festival here at school next week. I'm alone in a room adjoining the uninhabited teacher's lounge after school. The dance class sounds coming in from the auditorium ease the lonliness of the the refrigerator's hum.
Tom Robbins sees life and metaphor in everything.
The kids made fart noises while we watched "Jumanji" There's a dead gnat here on the table where I'm writing. I signed up for a fiction class at UCLA $185. I wrote a letter to Lisa S. in Chicago and sent her a story and one to a short story contest. I treadmilled last night and watched the Penguins outduel the Panthers in the Stanley Cup Finals while I listened to the Dodgers lose Piazza, and the game, on the radio.
What else? I'll read here a little before I head to Mike's. Maybe he's got a little puff. So o o. Gotta go see you tomorrow.
What? Cobwebs and nothing. A softball game tonight with my brother. Tomorrow he graduates from Cal State Northridge. He's having a big party Saturday night.
There's a bruise on my thigh. Probably got it drunk last weekend. Is my brain void of cells? I don't have a single thought or opinion.
Reading JC, though, I was marginally pleased with its development, but it has stalled now after he has gotten high and watched the porno. I need to consider the significance of these two acts. They're not sins, really, are they? But they are improper, aren't they? Is there a point in this?
Should he leave before anyone finds him. What are his thoughts here? What's his through-line? He doesn't want to go anywhere. THE QUICKSAND OF COUCH Find that one passage in last month's journal, soliloquoy the state of affairs. Don't speak with Adam until after he gets fired. Not caught masturbating. Interrupted by thoughts of mom teaching prayers - A growl for dinner over the sound of the TV interrupts.
Where does he go home to? Who's there? I need a fuckin' cabin. I need to be able to spread out my papers and absorb myself in this stuff without interruption. Maybe that Arizona Fellowship. I wish there was no softball today. Today and tomorrow are already used up. I won't be left alone on Friday.
I could go for a bong hit. Mrs. Camus' class is learning a dance for the Neil Simon tune "Coming to American" to perfrom in the Multicultural Festival here at school next week. I'm alone in a room adjoining the uninhabited teacher's lounge after school. The dance class sounds coming in from the auditorium ease the lonliness of the the refrigerator's hum.
Tom Robbins sees life and metaphor in everything.
The kids made fart noises while we watched "Jumanji" There's a dead gnat here on the table where I'm writing. I signed up for a fiction class at UCLA $185. I wrote a letter to Lisa S. in Chicago and sent her a story and one to a short story contest. I treadmilled last night and watched the Penguins outduel the Panthers in the Stanley Cup Finals while I listened to the Dodgers lose Piazza, and the game, on the radio.
What else? I'll read here a little before I head to Mike's. Maybe he's got a little puff. So o o. Gotta go see you tomorrow.
posted by johnz at 8:31 AM
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