revisited my novel yesterday. touched lightly on the meta-worlds of sorry and claudia and moe pelican and edwin oak. it's this damn hofstadter and his authorship triangles, and his axiom schemas.
last night: tentative plans, breached in the glassy brown light of bourbon & beer. maybe some hiking, in the woods, said james. new york city, in the fall, said johnny and ryan. and all the while it's cold in the summer city, and the wind makes the dead leaves skitter all around on the sidewalk. this town, one street in particular, is full of ghosts. i have got to get out of here. i've been having panic attacks, for no particular reason. especially at work. last night i had one at johnny's house: it gets hard to breathe, suddenly, and i lose my balance, all sense of orientation. it's like the universe is paying back for faking epilepsy in fourth grade.
it never fucking stops, you know. you think you've got it by the balls, but it turns out the only balls you're grabbing are your own, and don't you look like a fucking moron then.
and every girl has the same face. and every moment has millions of possibilities linking it to the next one, which is really only one of many possible outcomes, and the bifurcations are driving me insane. i better figure out that there is only now and deal with it, or else succumb to some kind of insanity; be shot through the heart by Zeno's arrow as it flies from point A to point C on its way to point B (on its way to point D, (on its way to point E....))
and so i drink again. bourbon is better than beer is better than being sober. and if i end up like Papa Hemingway, insane, owning many cats, and a shotgun, oh well. people tell me not to talk like that. but i do. and then they get mad at me, because it never fucking stops.
my therapist wants to put me on anti-anxiety meds. to stop the "hum" underneath it all.
johnny says the hum is what makes me make things.
it's like locusts.
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