title, phenoma's last.

What was all that about? Every word just wanted to stay out of the pool for a while, they stood around looking grim into the water. A bloody blue cement floor with a drain! It's not dead center? Look at it, as I am with my hair too flopping-wet, did you bring...

that book of metaphysics? I resort to it when it seems my friend the consul has grown thin on waiting his turn for the writing, staring at the pen.

does the theory of evolution sit on trampoline, thinking, where's my article? Where's the little one-letter word that helped bring me here? Hollow under that pale of black hair--a ghost in the machine, however! Ever an intelligence and cankering.

A new model for criticism? Speaking of characters, Durrell's or Lowry's, may occur: primitive model of art is at stake, that it is a random process that makes salutary connections--while not talking to its mother-ego about what's outside for now, the limited material beyond the text--the matter not reigned in by Derrida, for instance. We need to send these people a post card asking about Jesus, and why he was regaled in the process of their presiding over a wandering 5-year-old during a shotgun wedding.

That works best if no one knows what it's really about, and I cannot take any further prevaricating. You want to know! You! All about what this is about.

Well I could tell you, but then I'd--

Enough.

markers-crayon

I want nothing of heart: professionalism, veneer.

I've been thinking.

Yes, what it means to be a writer: in the mawkish sense. It's an ugly word full of nasty implications for the heart!

Did you put that in? This is only me, perhaps in the drab of secondarity, foretelling an aching skull. The topmost portion, the brink! Aching, sore. Apologizing daily, looking about: the sophistry in a sound place of love. Regardless of synecdoches.

streets of gold

Because, well simply it is what I do, or tend to: it's that, and this, but it's pretty much it. Doesn't anyone believe me? I've got to explain it. The only way I can is through an essay, via story. The formula works, if you can justify it daily, constant excuses. So many signatures. Only they don't have a legal system in prose, no one's accountable--cannot this be seen?

Cannot this...did he say, be seen?

yes, he believes he's on a stage. let him or nothing will get done.

an executor!

it's--it's--: hold on.

It just started making sense, that I would write in this medium first and then span out--but something told me that was safe, and I fled.

Safe in what regard? In the sense of saving--a responsible depository.

blogger's my girlfriend.

with mustard

I just want to watch all the sci-fi movies ever...and write until I have it in my palms, control of that one pen...the one I've been searching this earth for, the flowing and gently stabbing end somehow like a ball-point but rather, almost a Uni-Ball.

If only my writing commanded the attention of an abomination, as I said I created with someone else's song! Not Unsane's, but that of a guitarist brother. Well, unless he says it's less insane than I think it is, it will remain hidden. Of course, David Grom knows...if he's checked his bloody email recently.

/ok.

Ha!

in the studio---

It was then that I looked around, and said: "What have I got?"

A raspy voice! Really loud and screeching, celebrating--what? A well-written essay, a swimming day, a sidewalk well-shoveled, a car belatedly disinterred? What then--this is the question. "Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ."

Joyce.

"It wasn't always this way...it wasn't always this way. It wasn't always this way...

"You laid there on that sidewalk, you laid there on that sidewalk. You laid there on that sidewalk..."

--Unsane.

Today I went ahead and drummed that infernally repeating young-punk beat that sounds quite sad when put with those awful vocals, despairing and stabbed through with problems the singer has created for himself: the blood on the sidewalk, the fumes wafting about his head! This, a song by Unsane, and the one that follows it--are both as one to me. Nothing is more miserable, this delightful pair of dirges. I try to live by them, as in, capturing the agony of adolescence in that old house way, that flavor a thousand times removed from traditional teen angst, rendered typically by teeny-bopper fluff. No! This is Poltergeist with better production.

where'd this come from?

at the moment it sounded crazy awesome, and later as I thought about its possibilities I felt they were defensible. damnit! have you never tried to create something? undue elation and foolish pride finish every stupid project! why did I waltz into Lisa's room when I was 10 and say, look at this drawing! because even though it wasn't finished, if I didn't show it to someone right then, by the morning it would've seemed a wasted effort. self-canceling doubt follows upon every production. it can't be helped. only the audience can be switched.