Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha
If I could remember, this (tonight, the last three and a half years) this might be how I once felt – long ago. Years ago, hateful, hopeless, resentful, and constrained.
What would it be like to die alone and helpless? Better than dying in a situation – at the mercy of nature – and your last human contact being someone you did not know well, or particularly like.
…
The reason I am planning on going to New Jersey is not to do something for money that involves dealing with other people even more than I do now, but to get away from ass kissing prostitution and other people’s problems – to involve myself in me and my writing – or the things I have written over the past four to six years. And I would want to have time to myself to read, to leave, to experience something of the surrounding area without entering into a situation which, wherein is contained the ? “Your time here is dedicated to others.” no my time is to be dedicated to myself.
Perhaps my inspirations are tainted with the pathetic – my purported ideals for this summer – and how to get through the next five months – nothing much to look at but I lost track of where I was going with that thought.
I’m tired of other persons realities, of the effort it takes to ingest and make sense of the varied modes of existence they exhibit – worthless – wasted effort when all it comes down t is conflict, misunderstanding, conflict. Why plan ahead? It would be better to scrap spending this “week’s paid vacation” doing C’s thing….
I would like to say “It is done.” That’s why I would go to New Jersey, to be able to immerse myself in a work – in working on something dragged from my own essence, my hands and heart – and a minimum of distractions would facilitate this.
A moment before achieving unconsciousness I re-experience an entire history – perhaps not the entire history – but a span of thousands of years having beneath, under the surface of an actual memory, a vision of a town, then a city coalescing – with no possible knowledge of the future – how could these women and men know what would occur on the dirt paths they once trod, what mechanized drone would drown the stones of church buildings and houses they had erected with their own hands? They could not know me – nor that only two years ago I had walked those same paths, set foot where countless feet have wandered, and that I would leave, return, move on to other walkways, motorways and monuments trailing only the dust of a few precious memories in my wake – and yet – I remember those that could not know me – and times far form mine I could not know – a memory etched in a snow storm piling ghostly soft covering gravestones and beginning to melt even as it (the snow) settles.
