This train says S Special Shuttle. That’s never happened before. Where will this train go? Will I ever arrive at an address that I have forgotten to write down? How many people riding the subway try to read what I’m writing? Are you reading this now? A chance then, if. No more books though, Musil is months overdue. This is a shuttle train to Atlantic Avenue transfer at Franklin. A one track operation.

Spring Break has ended. I have a bad cold. I feel like doo doo, don’t sound so hot either. I am lagging behind in schoolwork but at this point so what?

Perhaps the best strategy to go about dealing with the V situation is to act as if she did not exist; then it will be a pleasant surprise rather than an interference when she pays attention to me.

A pessimistic conviction that not much good will happen – therefore can one act to help good to happen?

Drained uninspired wrecked sloppy helpless uninsured – wait, I have insurance – but that’s a whole other story. One million things to do – no time.

Make my own standards
Save Money
Economize

I’m dissappointed that you, E, have not done your graphic novel yet.

Funkster

At the same time, however, I simply seem to be waiting for V to appear. Instead of doing anything else.

An endless writer of lists. Writing endless lists. Reality? Let’s be realistic here. Let’s forget that punctuation shit. No momentum. Crash. That hurt. Now I think I’ll rest. V, you ask? Who is V?

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.

Or also there is the mailbox which could be checked, the thought of tobacco which makes one feel ill, dizzy, etc.

So there you have it. Today I will work starting at 4:00 finishing sometime near 11:00 that all in the P.M. Tomorrow I will also work – but earlier during the day.

Nothing in the mail today but notices for bounced checks – I will also need to go to Hastings to return overdue movie.

…

Now back from work, still haven’t returned overdue movie, work tomorrow again, then work and more work. Now listening to Beethoven and haven’t seen Immortal Beloved not now having any desire to do so.

“But what do you want?”

What is important to me? Immortal to me… Mainly to compile all of the writing I have been doing over the past three and a half years of so into a cohesive form. The halogen lamp is buzzing. Turn it up and it doesn’t make as much noise. Depression is not a bad thing – more a necessary thing.

I’ve been reading Nightwood – Djuna Barnes. A compact. I can think mush faster than I talk – also write much more clearly what I think – conversations remain muddled and incomplete.

It is important to write, good to have written to read again – it means something to live in writing to read, remind, remember – to live differently now because of this writing.

Hard copy solid existent artifact. Thankful for pen and paper, for another’s expression, the sight and scent, the sensory impression – living through the senses – not the drugs or the internet.

It was then. The stinking, bubbling cesspool called, offering solace – the greatest imaginable release and comfort.

In the end you will be forced to compromise.

Why did you want to kill yourself?

Will you be force to compromise?

I don’t know anything about it.

I would like to own a circa 1935 Webster’s Dictionary. As for today words starting with the letter A. Symbolically (tangent: Litmus?) aviette – the flying bicycle represents living. While trying to take the cure. Writing while pushing a shopping cart pan-present object. They are still around. The words I was discovering in the last entry were somehow more pleasing then. I had come across them by mistake.

I came close to falling for her, but at the same time by some frantic effort raised up barriers around myself, remained distant, unwilling to involve my self in a scenario similar to one so oft-repeated, falling for someone. If it was some chance offering from fate I replied, “No, I do not choose this for myself at this time.”

Disorder – misplaced objects – attempting to assemble some semblance of order.

Pulsating. If it were possible to be alone.

Because of x I cannot y. In order to keep myself safe from y I x. Y is a kind of inoculation against desire. I am rendered effectively immune, but the effects are not permanent. I am reaching the point of saturation – where my tolerance to profanation has almost reached the point of inversion and profanations no longer. The act ceases to have its former impact. And no longer leaves me feeling as wretched – no longer overrides reality and I believe I can function despite the inoculation which is evolving into inoculation only and renders me immovable by the impetus of desire – maybe even removes that sort of sexual desire entirely.
Am I trying to establish complete control of my reality – inasmuch as my reactions to external elements are concerned?

When I was attending NAU that first semester I had rituals of daily, weekly impulsive – which kept me in balance – I also had something to concentrate my energy upon – a program of work which occupied my mental, intellectual member – i.e. my brain.
Now I have no such program. Distractions assume greater importance. No mental occupation. Instead stagnation, at least partially as I do not find myself excited about, or learning now things, grappling with new ideas. A lack, or dearth of inspiration.

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