cannot stop thinking about the wilds -  the thick, knotty, piney wilderness.  the crisp, blanched air.  the all-consuming inkblot of night.  i hallucinate that there would an utter silence, though i know it would be loud. 

he calls me "kid."  wants to read my novel, which, as many times as i've said it and will continue to say it, is really awful.  he thinks i'm being self-deprecating.  he is drunk, wants a drag of my cigarette.  i know that the next day he's going to hate himself.  he is exasperated with my cynicism, is charmingly frustrated.  to this, my defences collapse and i admit to my cautious optimisms.  this isn't enough.  he's built himself up to the point of a gale now, railing on about this indecency and the other - it's almost comical, though he is too impassioned for me to laugh at - when i do, he whirls on me, chagrin hueing his tone.  he knows what it is.  he's having one of those EVERYTHING IS CLEAR nights, though his brain is a stir of heavy-handed drinks & conversation.

he calls me "kid" like i'm younger than he is.  i don't mind.  i shut up & let him tell me that i 'get' it.  in my private, solitary moments, i allow myself to smile.

a nice fellow who shares a dream with me then immediately regrets it.  speeds off into the night on his motorcycle.  i am left alone in his apartment and begin systematically reading all of his books until he comes back.  when he does, taking his helmet off by the door, he stares at me and is angry.  now you know everything about me, he accuses, and the lights all go out at once.  when i come to, i am in a basement with a shadow that is more like a moth, flapping madly at my face before vanishing again.

i am writing something in the goopy, melting cement of the walls, and it says, TRUTH, which i claw away in a fit of vengeful fury.  this has the added benefit of causing the walls to completely melt and collapse and the entire thing falls down around me.  

the sky is a polished gun.  the sun is the smoking hole.  the bullet, speeding through the space. 

"The entire sense of self-control and self-responsibility that man acquired during the Neolithic Revolution when he first learned to plant grain and domesticate animals and live in one spot of his own choosing was seriously threatened.  The threat had been coming since the Industrial Revolution and many people had pointed it out before Ashton Clark.  But Ashton Clark went one step further.  If the situation of a technological society was such that there could be no direct relation between a man's work and his modus vivendi, other than money, at least he must feel that he is directly changing things by his work, shaping things, making things that weren't there before, moving things from one place to another.  He must exert energy in his work and see these changes occur with his own eyes.  Otherwise he would feel his life was futile."

- Samuel R. Delany, Nova

dream

dream: lying on the back of a truck under blankets.  bluebirds keep zinging down from the sky.  angry.  other birds.  i catch one that comes too close and crunch it in my outstretched hand.  //

my bedroom is in an alley outside of the house.  a crazy fucked-up woman won't leave.  follows me to work.  hides in the basement.  wont fucking leave. //

opinion

haha > lol

nota bene:

"Crouched in the broken shadow with the sun at his back and holding the trap at eyelevel against the morning sky he looked to be truing some older, some subtler instrument. Astrolabe or sextant. Like a man bent at fixing himself someway in the world. Bent on trying by arc or chord the space between his being and the world that was. If there be such space. If it be knowable."

- cormac mccarthy, "the crossing"