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2001-07-17 - 2:28 a.m. - art and ernest.

i remember you saying that you couldn't get drunk anymore. that no matter how much you drink you just couldn't feel it and in retrospect it seems like an odd metaphor to me. i can see you standing in fields waving your arms maniaclly, blood replaced with whiskey and sober as a thumbtack or a nail that you might accidently swallow to poke holes in yer stomach. and i can see you reaching for stars that just aren't there and i think of a hemingway quote:

"If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."

and we are a courageous bunch and now the world is trying to break us down at the end of the day. and somehow you drew the shortest stick and have always been the best, the most brave and gentle and strong and so the world has tried time and time again to break you. like when i was a senior and you were a junior...or was it when i was a junior. i can't even recall. but that's our curse. your curse more specifically. being too fucking good for this world.

its like how i feel about writing. how i work so hard and revise and edit a poem ten times before its close to being ready for publication or just to read out loud without being embarassed (except for you laura, somehow i can read you anything of mine any time and not feel fucking retarded). and that is what good writing is all about. T.S. Elliot didn't write the wasteland in one sitting. I have a book that contains all the manuscripts and he amde giant changes worhty of the glory of excavating sunken ocean liners or castrating all our least favorite dictators. and i find myself disgusted at people who just write everything in one sitting and they don't show me anything. they just discuss their feelings. thats fucking fine and dandy do discuss your feelings, just don't call it poetry. and don't try to think your some great writer just because you can write about your feelings. find a creative way to express them. everyone can express their thoughts and feelings. its all about the execution. i frequent a diary through this fine site that has some beautiful poetry and some of it seems like it might be early drafts maybe but there are so many beautiful ideas in the writings and beautiful phrases and images. it is ophelialetgo and you should read it. it is some very beautiful stuff. and i have been meaning to send an email to this stranger to tell them i think their writing is beautiful but i just don't seem to get aorund to it so i hope they read this. i hope.

and now i sound all bitter. really. and conceited. and angry. but it all goes back to that hemingway quote. and you know what this is my curse. having dipped my fingers in a lake of beautiful music and words and images and dangling and drinking from it. and know it is there. and still having to face the desert on the other side of the hill. and sometimes i feel as if maybe i am just drinking sand when i am engufed in the beautiful art of others or writing some myself, like i think there is an oasis but it is really just a mirage and i am choking on sand. but there is never the depth or beauty i desire in the desert. there is always somethign worthwhile to be seen and enjoyed. but never anything to ease the parched body of a weary traveler.

and this is by far on eof the most irritating entries i have ever written.

xoxo

jrb

listen to: the art of others, like medicine that cools yer insides and keeps yer blood from clotting in yer veins.

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