I was writing this time last year of a project, a project of isolation – shutting off – focus will silence are words used to emphasize this desire and now it seems I have failed and succeeded – failed when it was vital for me to succeed and succeeded when it was more important to fail.
But I wish I had written more and better this last year. An occasional outpouring half stemmed outpouring wherein it was not always clear what was going on but maybe I also needed to take that time away from writing – time away and rest is sometimes a good thing but doing nothing also becomes a habit.
So in May I will be leaving for Jersey to live in a town called Cape May for the summer.
Perhaps the new project will be to try not to do the same thing over and over again. Over the summer I will write at least one novel, several works of poetry and create many works of visual art.
I’ll explain it like this: I’ve been trying to avoid playing a part in a movie, trying to wrestle something individual away from the clutches of our cultural discourse, or at least from my immediate recall, environment, surroundings.
I am moving to New Jersey for the summer which will, hopefully, be more Betty Blue than Killing Zoe though these connections are tenuous (and meanwhile looking through the dictionary in an attempt towards correct spelling I find a good word: teramorphous.)
I am leading a teramorphous existence through my ideally tenuous though usually densely laden employment at the restaurant? Mention this over and over and over again. Read Faulkner and assimilate. Shed your teramorphous epidermis. Yes, but it must continually thicken to see me through these next few months. A dangerous pastime – taking advice from T. Though often compelling and well-meant… somehow listening to her ideas creates a short-circuit in the circuitry of circumstance – her lending me an ideal about how events could ideally transpire destroys connections in situations where I have no ideal and do not wish to concoct one. But perhaps I rebel and concoct my own ideal after all and am only looking for someone else to blame for my suffering, tension, and confusion. But – no advice equals no one else to blame but me.
my stasis = conscious urbacity
POSTCARD
From: C
To: The restaurant
Unfortunately the curves of the earth are much like those of different lovers. Although a different body’s shape, textures, smells, responses… are uniquely intriguing and arousing – the body still consists mainly of arms, legs, torso, head… In the midst of intrigue, arousal, seduction and every imaginable means of stimulus, I find myself in Just another city. I have to admit that N.Y. is more a De Niro than a Keanu Reeves, which suits me better, but a piece of ass remains a piece of ass remains a piece of ass!!! That’s the long-winded way of saying: same ol same ol. Working lots – I think I’m in love but safer to call it excruciating lust for now.
& drunk again at 4:35 AM – tongue kisses to all
-C
…
The last week:
Overwhelming – me a little mistrustful – things too good to be true are – denial advice from others equals
detritus clogging my soul’s bloodstream – detritus of fear. Word’s horizon depths. Excruciating emptiness.
Deny Deny Deny hold out dam the breaching flood.
Psilosopher – no I never knew there was such a word
But Symbolic dermatomycosis – this I had until now forgotten. Dermatophyte my cassock, my celibacy, my garment. This physical actuality again reasserts its mass and pulls more weight than any events. It is a physical mark somehow as inescapable as a circumcised or shaven phallus and somewhere between these two described pubic extremities (maybe)
Obturate – detritus did obturate my will/ability to act in the moment
Ptyalism in abnormal flow of saliva
I am almost completely incomprehensible to myself. I might be in the midst of a schism, amputation, rejoining or recovery of a lost articulation
againnow
nowprologue
nowyearone
nowyearsix
nowyearfive
nowyearseven
nowyearnine
nowyearthree
nowyeartwo
nowyearfour
nowyearten
