(no subject)
Pg. 1 (wherein Max and Rick sit outside the Beanery on a blustery late spring day, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and attempting to brainstorm fiction)
Takes place in Portland
Main Character - Feckless Fuck "Andre"
Supporting char.
Small Animal Killer - intro to % scheme - shot by Damon on fire escape
"Dog Boy"
Vet. shut in - "Damon" Reticent until the end... Bitchslap of reality
"Sit down you young feckless fuck; I'm gunna tell ya a thing or two about a thing or two."
Pg.2
A small child bit the dust today right in front of me. There were several women around and they all gasped in horror and I laughed. A pretty Blonde laughed with me.
Pg.3 (dated wed. 29th Sept.)
A fat woman in a track suit is constantly glancing around and behind her. Her eyes are never on where she's going. With one hand she drags a backpack on wheels; the other is swinging a water bottle crisply back and forth, like she is marching.
A small and bent middle aged Asian woman rolls a backpack behind her, clasping the handles in two full-fisted grips. She stares at a point on the sidewalk ahead, chugging ahead indefatigably. She stops abruptly at the curb and another middle aged woman picks her up in a black BMW suv.
He's making his way, swinging his right hand on his left step and his right hand on his left step when he stops and peers up the hill. He has started to climb clumsily, and I figure he must be trying to catch the bus that is departing up there. But he stops his scramble about midway up the hill and plucks a plain brown mushroom from the ground at the base of a sapling. He gives it one perfunctory sniff and then ravenously bites into it. He then plants it back in the ground, chews, swallows and hops down from the small hill.
The library window at PCC where I sit sometimes affords the best views.
Pg.4
I need sex, or something like it. baking.
Pg.5 (the reemergence of potty mouth carl)
POTTY MOUTH CARL! I saw Potty Mouth Carl today. On the #44 bus, going to PCC... In Portland!
Who the hell is this ubiquitous specter, this hunch-backed bespectacled gnome who haunts community college libraries and bus lines; he's a man on a constant pilgrimage, from book to book and from city to city, muttering and eyebrow waggling endlessly.
"God, Death, 1984, Marx"
What are the odds that I'd encounter potty mouth carl- here. Before now I never would have guessed that he left Chemeketa. And now after having stared at his spotty face disbelievingly, I can't help but corroborate the feeling I had before, when he talked to me, however briefly in the Chemeketa stacks: that we're connected <--- DRAMATIC ELIPSIS
No, but seriously, we're part of the same wossname? Working together to fulfill whosnames purpose... damn, I need to read Cat's Cradle again.
Pg.6
Well, its two weeks into classes and I'm feeling better. Still no pertinent interpersonal connections, and, being a city away, I'm ignoring my old ones.
Bob suggested that I make new friends last night on the drive home; I explained that maybe I'm not as outgoing as I used to be. But now, in hindsight, I think I meant used to be two weeks ago.
Pg.7
you know, I walk around the campus every day draped in scarves and cool jackets, cigs hanging from my lips, which you bet your ass are perma-pouting, just trying enormously too hard, all in the hope that someone will speak to me.
It's the worst and most desperate form of loneliness when one tries to pretend that he is above loneliness.
Pg.8
Am I surly like Bukowski yet? And more importantly: does it fall to the author in everyday life to speak or to listen more than the other? Are we story tellers, or hunter-gatherers of life experiences and personal mythologies?
Pg.9
Last night was bad. I haven't been so piss-poor and out of control for about two years. Last night I tried to re-open the scars on my wrist, but was laughing too hard to continue, when suddenly, I didn't want to anymore.
I paced on the porch, my feet freezing in their wet cotton sleeves in the thirty degree night; I shivered and took numb steps occasionally screwing my face into a pucker and baring my teeth at the cold, sadness filled night.
I went inside, washed my hands and noticed the blood running down the sink. Small cuts, they're small cuts. More laughter as my blood danced iridescently in the drain. Good thing I'm wearing a long sleeved shirt. My watch's wristband keeps on sticking to and tearing away the scabs; one's infected now...
There's really not much more to say. Really last night was so ridiculous. Every night I lose a little bit more control. Mostly over school, somewhat over the big picture -- Life, ya dig? I'm going to break before this life is over. I'm thinking about quitting school until I can apply to university. It seems like a suitably bold thing to do. Move out, work, meet people, write; simple life, but at least not monotonous and degrading like community college and work study in Disability Services.
I don't feel much like a writer today. I feel like a joyless shmuck ... there's only a month left of this life. then a new term will begin.
FUCK ART, wow so vitriolic.
Pg.10
You know: I haven't felt happy, overall contentedness in years. But then again, maybe no one ever does.
I just wish I was strong enough to take the reigns of my moods and just be stable; not shriek in laughter one moment and in abject terror of life the next. I wish I didn't see and hear things that aren't really there. Who's responsible for this? Who can I blame for all the mistakes that were made in my brain? Not my parents, not god; myself?
I only really believe in my self. Other people are so nebulous -- concepts like God are dubious. Some men are islands. At least spiritually, emotionally. I'd like to be alone now. Also, I'd like to save the last page of this thing for when I'm happy again.
Pg.11
We each have within us a slough of Literary and artistic forefathers; little mommies and daddies of our emotions awash in our blood, by their very nature doing battle with everything that we think we know.
While our actual mommies and daddies may wish upon us investment banking or real estate, or some other contrived fulfillment of their dreams, our consciousness want us only to be true to ourselves. The truth is readily evident in the entropic scatter of napkins, or the starburst of orange pasta sauce on a white polyester shirt.
Lies are readily apparent as well. You're only free within yourself.
Don't believe me. You're only lying to yourself every time you agree with someone else or think, "He's right."
Read less and write more.
Know from whence you came, but always be going.
Life is transitory, but the truth of life is universal and eternal.
Be not afraid to flip liars the bird.
Writer, artist, musician, sculptor, poet, philosopher: Find yourself.
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Recognize that you are the answer and that the question is always changing.
you don't have to be good; it's important
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that you just be.
Don't assume that your truth is The Truth, just because it looks good on paper.
I'm with you, because I am you.
I've decided to end this self-imposed isolation. Don't be concerned. I've got a plan. I've always got a plan.