Fri 2 - 14
They were trailing exhausted hearts in the sky over the Valley all day today.
Sat 2-15
I'm getting pummeled in the writing department. The sun warms me as I sit here at the table. Shirelle left me last night because I am no longer comfortable with the amount she drinks and smokes. Am I a hypocrite? Not exaclty. I read the national edition of the New York Times this morning. It was delivered to our porch. The crossword was hard. I read the Rapa Nui poems of Neruda. They were complemented by the warmth and brightness of the sun. The shadow of my hand and pencil write along with me. I'm drinking a can of Kern's Whole Fruit Strawberry Nectar, and a pot of coffee is brewing. I put a load of pants in the washing machine. It used up the rest of the soap.
I e-mailed Rogeve, Julia, Craig, Jeff, and Jan last night. I typed for a whole fifteen minutes. I treadedmill for thirty-three minutes. I called my grandmother. I drew a picture of myself in high school in my football uniform. We went to Marie Callendar's on Wilshire last night. It was tense. Let's not go into it. I'm more a Fitzgerald than a Hemingway in the love department.
What will I eat this morning. How about an orange. I'm going to type and type and type today until I have ten pages of shitty first draft material to add to Jim. I read another couple of chapters of Sweet Remedy. John Bayless called last night. I just used my pencil to stir my coffee. Tonight is Getoff's birthday. Some of us are to go out and celebrate with him. How can I crank out ten pages for Jim when I can't even do three for myself. Maybe it will be easier if it's for someone else. Mockingbirds and blackbirds are battling for control of the backyard.
What else? After this I'll move to my desk and type until five o'clock with an hour break for lunch. All the windowsills are dusty. My feet are cold. A flat layer of clouds has obscured the sun.
Shit on all of it. Poop poopy doo. I had lasagna blanca in a garlic cream sauce with bruschetta last night. Yum yum. There is no alcohol in the house and just a little marijuana. I can plays some guitar. Check my e-mail. Call P. Lee. Piss off. Kiss my ass. Rent movies. Walk across the city. Kill bugs. Spit on the sidewalk, Not flush toilets.
They were trailing exhausted hearts in the sky over the Valley all day today.
Sat 2-15
I'm getting pummeled in the writing department. The sun warms me as I sit here at the table. Shirelle left me last night because I am no longer comfortable with the amount she drinks and smokes. Am I a hypocrite? Not exaclty. I read the national edition of the New York Times this morning. It was delivered to our porch. The crossword was hard. I read the Rapa Nui poems of Neruda. They were complemented by the warmth and brightness of the sun. The shadow of my hand and pencil write along with me. I'm drinking a can of Kern's Whole Fruit Strawberry Nectar, and a pot of coffee is brewing. I put a load of pants in the washing machine. It used up the rest of the soap.
I e-mailed Rogeve, Julia, Craig, Jeff, and Jan last night. I typed for a whole fifteen minutes. I treadedmill for thirty-three minutes. I called my grandmother. I drew a picture of myself in high school in my football uniform. We went to Marie Callendar's on Wilshire last night. It was tense. Let's not go into it. I'm more a Fitzgerald than a Hemingway in the love department.
What will I eat this morning. How about an orange. I'm going to type and type and type today until I have ten pages of shitty first draft material to add to Jim. I read another couple of chapters of Sweet Remedy. John Bayless called last night. I just used my pencil to stir my coffee. Tonight is Getoff's birthday. Some of us are to go out and celebrate with him. How can I crank out ten pages for Jim when I can't even do three for myself. Maybe it will be easier if it's for someone else. Mockingbirds and blackbirds are battling for control of the backyard.
What else? After this I'll move to my desk and type until five o'clock with an hour break for lunch. All the windowsills are dusty. My feet are cold. A flat layer of clouds has obscured the sun.
Shit on all of it. Poop poopy doo. I had lasagna blanca in a garlic cream sauce with bruschetta last night. Yum yum. There is no alcohol in the house and just a little marijuana. I can plays some guitar. Check my e-mail. Call P. Lee. Piss off. Kiss my ass. Rent movies. Walk across the city. Kill bugs. Spit on the sidewalk, Not flush toilets.
posted by johnz at 12:29 PM
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