2001-07-16 - 3:15 a.m. - an insane possee of clowns
i have been restless beyond belief all day, reading page after page of hemingway and realizing that their is life to be lived for everyone but somehow i just can't seem to find it. and i am reduced to the way creamer paints a landscape of clouds as it slowly bleeds between hybrid of caffiene and water. i went to dennys and sat for twenty miutes surrounded by insane posses of clowns in their post concert bliss uttering fucking obscenities and speaking of the beauty of rape and misogyny and violence. and really all three of those fit together like some sort of ugly jigsaw puzzle that beautiful people should never ever look at for fear of turning to dust and being swept into an ashtray that someone just puked in, drunk off of to much jack and faygo. but really we all need to be able to look at it because that is the only way we can ever destroy the idea. as if the idea were a building and we were dynamite we need to just fucking blow it up so it never happens again. like that episode of the sopranos where the girl got raped and rosie fucking o'donnell refused to say the word rape and onlys iad attack. if we are to afraid to confront even the idea of rape than we are to afraid to fight it before or after it happens. fight. and to listen to these motherfuckers talk about rape and then for me to stumble, quite randomly across somebody's diary where they were discussing their own, or possibly some fictional-creative-writing account (you never can be sure about what is real or not on these pages, i know alot of what i write is made up, fiction if you will) of rape. and so i left denny's and went to big boy and it was a quiet and conservative as dennys was loud and nightmare inducing. and in its own way, the pace of big boy became nightmare inducing and so i sat through one cup of tea, listening intently to the soft conversation of a group of kids at a nearby table, and then left. and really this is a horrible time and place to try to quit smoking. i am failing miserably because i am just too bored and alone to do anything else. and i know there is beauty all around me. sometimes i just try too hard not to see it.you are beautiful.
and i find myself questioning why i even left my apartment tonight and i think it is because i don't have a motherfucking table. my home is small and i crammed it full of a couch and chairs and records and a computer and i don't have fucking room for a table. and so i don't have anyplace to sit down and concentrate on words.
i read in the bath tub.
and then i go to restaraunts and sit for a few moments and start to write something but then become restless and all the groups of lovers and friends and fucking-evil-clowns just make me realize acutely, how alone i really am. and then i leave never having found the concentration to write that i desire more than anything else.
i need a motherfucking table.
and today i wrote you a letter that i will never send.
and today i made you a tape you will never hear.
and i waited for the phone to ring. wishing only to hear the voice of any of a handful of different friends and one called and left a message from dayton and the others, as i suspected didn't call. and somehow that doesn't surprise me.
and i wonder which way the window of the room you sleep in is facing and if the moon is painting you now in dying shades of pale.
and i wonder how much black shit is in my lungs from three years (has it really been that long) of smoking.
i am never answering always dialing.
and now my life feels like that flashpapr song where he sings about a sink full of dishes and a life full of wishes and half finished manuscripts.
i wonder if my phone bill came in the mail yesterday.
there are piles of boxes in my room. it's been two months since i last moved and they're still taped shut.
disregard all those inkless pens. decomposing. all my compositions are imaginary locked inside my brain. i wonder if truth feels as sweet as rain. and could you ever acertain the division of truth so we could stitch it on our sleeves. believe. believe me now.
fuck this shit.
im out of here.
xoxo.
listen to: Aloha: "Let Your Head Hang Low," Saturday Looks Good To Me: "I Wish I Could Cry"
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