The Only Truth is Action

2-4-00 F 2:37 PM

I'm at school.  The kids just went home.  I thought I was going to get a lot of reading done today, but I only read the paper.  We had a grade-level meeting.  I went to Burger King at lunch.  Miss Maloney invited me to eat with her.  She makes me suspicious because she's nice and beautiful and well-mannered.  The kids watched a bootleg version of "Tarzan" after lunch.  I need to go on a very long bike ride.  I'll read McCain. Work on Jim.  Read Milton.  Drink and smoke.  Watch "Payback."  Rochelle will want to go out tonight.  She's no different than But in that respect.  Being a writer is weird--to have this whole interior monologue that exists apart from one's actions.  Everyone urges you to write the truth.  That is patently impossible.  Marks that stand for sounds that stand for ideas that are abstract. The only truth is action. If I write about doubts in my marriage, say, but I don't express them to my wife or act on them in any way, then it doesn't attain the level of truth.  Does it?  Duh duh duh.  Bottle of whiskey.  Today is payday.  I made three thousand dollars.  I have to write a check for the rent.  I wonder how much I had left in my checking account after last month.  I better take care of those speeding tickets.  I've still got a lecherous heart.  I still want to be able to fool around with all the broads I want and still make my wife happy.  It's like a character speaking.  It's not real.  The outlines of transparent serpents float across the field of my vision.  What else?  Gray skies today.  Slight chance of showers.  Andrea's coming to see her bird.  What else?  The musicians convention is this weekend.  My game is at 9:00 Sunday.