Portals for Exploring the Only Time You Are Not in Conflict with God

 11:20 AM Th 7-6-00

Farmer's Market is crawling with septuagenarians. Occasionally, a twenty-something piece of ass walks by, and I feel like Henry Miller. The wife didn't go to work today. That disgusted me. She can always get that lost fifty bucks off me, I guess. Maybe she'll go to class, but why should she when she's got a mule to ride already. Whatever. I added ten lines to Jim this morning. I read Mailer's juvenile takes on Crazy Cock. He makes one point, about vagina fixations that they, vaginas, are flesh and blood portals for exploring creation. I feel justified this morning in all the cunt craving I do. See? It's a philosophical pursuit. Too bad I'm too big a pussy to do anything but stare and wonder. Whatever. It's all the urge to create. Who said the only time you're not in conflict with God is during the act of creation? Was it Miller? Bukowski? Bukowski quoting Miller? Or some quote I read randomly from some other word spewer?

I rode up here on my bike. I took a paper into DuPar's and read it with eggs Florentine. I thought of riding to Los Feliz or taking the red line further up Lankershim. I've got to do a third person still. Read Chandler. Put some more words to Jim. The cop's blue eyes. The hour of drinking. The detailed spiral out of control. A cyclone of detail. The plot of a tornado, touching down, moving aimlessly. Whatever. Dupar's has Fabulous HOT MEAT PIES, so reads a sign.  How about a fishing trip? I've got to call Thing. I know he won't go. He was talking about something at the Viper Room tonight. Maybe I won't drink 'til later. Maybe I'll go to Cheetah's. There's a gal with big melons looking at the tits in the produce section. I feel wormy squirms behind my dick. Whatever. No me gusta ser casado. Se chupa. Whatever. Cualquier. What else? Ride bike. Write a page. Lift.