Taking Notes
Jotting. The thing I like to do. Designate. Point to. Hit & run.
I don’t claim virtue for it (though why I’d want to drag ethics into it, I don’t know, even to disown.). It’s it’s it’s easy. It’s fun. That’s the kind of guy I am.
Nietzsche liked to take notes too, esp. after he got crazy. He may have tried to claim a virtue for it. That’s the kind of guy he was.
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But see (see?) everything comes & goes so fast, by the time I attach a verb to my subject, it’s gone. Disappeared. Fled.
I don’t want to lean too far on fluency, the passerine. Because I’d fall flat. Yes, but then I’d roll. Roll away.
My list generally contains words such as “shoes” & “brassiere.” Perhaps I should try some other kinds of lists beside shopping. Nietzsche didn’t bother with shopping lists. But he was man.
Broadway «Bux St. Pat’s 2004
Passion, Piety, Affection
I’m trying to think of words to hearten Jean Op, who hates her life. Or I was, until I stopped & wondered why I felt called upon to give J-J encouragement and/or advice. I came up with affection. I no longer carry passion (it leaked out my crack!) & my tendencies toward piety sicken me. What is it about piety? The renouncing of intelligence that always seems to tag along? Is it the name? [another word ruined by the Xtians]. I don’t bristle so much at the word devotion –only bridle a little.
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But the fact is I do love [inna-way] J-J. & want her to be happy. What do we need to be happy? Faith, Hope & Caritas & enough $ to keep us from having to labor with turkeys (toil with knaves?). (I have had enough, but never for long.) She wouldn’t accept my suggestions (preaching) or welcome my comments (analysis), and she has plenty of friends nearby.
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I find winning a few bucks always cheers me right up. Now that I don’t have my tidal hormones tossing me around like a bipolar skiff…all I have are events. And events tend to depress.
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If I’m going to channel somebody, or pray, I think Alex David-Neel & Willie B. Yeats are the ones I could/might “ground.”
Oh, here come Tweedle & Dee. Outside, Big Dog.
Broadway «Bux
The New Me
The New Me is older than the old me. She has short, short hair that accentuates the dumbo of her ears. She has hay fever instead of sexual desires.
She’s wiser & less passionate. (No connection) Just as irritable. No pangs of love.
I far prefer the old model with all her defects, because her joints seldom hurt. She slept well (maybe a little too well)—how could she have been suicidal?
Oh, you can always be suicidal.
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Raining like a spring rain after all those warm sunny days. I’m hoping the pollen will wash out of the air & my nose will calm down. Ever since Alvia’s cold (I mean the one she gave me), my nasal mucosa think everything is a threat.
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While visiting mom (3 days) I forgot to take all my vitamins, and my stomach stopped hurting, what does that mean? Also, while I noticed no improvement in my “rheum” (esp. shoulders), now that I’m back, it’s much worse, burning, prickling. So maybe I should quit taking vitamins?
I was going to explore (or at least list) what I hate most about Parkland/home & the how of my feeling of obliteration (if I can), but……not right now. It may be an essay because, from here, “I just can’t explain it.”
Eights?
Walking along
Much fails me in life, but cake never. I’m having funny feelings in my heart. But I think it’s my sternum. Don’t care.
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Cold front, some rain, & big clouds. Eye-popping visual effects in the sky…
I was wearing my gloves.
The Latin teacher is telling another person about her bad childhood—but also about her teaching philosophy. (And I don’t have to respond, so I don’t care.) I do want to shout, “Eheu, fugaces!”
A Sex Truck, I Hope
The counterboy w/ the Chanticleer hair [Brett] says he was run over by a truck. I do not throw in my 2 ¢ (except here). Earlier he suggested I scream, “Oh God, I’m going to vomit.” in hopes of clearing a few seats. Instead I take a walk & come back. George (AKA the dwarf Stinky) & his Dad are still here. Fortunately the 2 fat-bottomed girls got up & left me a seat a goodly ways from Stinky & Dad, so I can eat my lemon cake in peace.
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And I do. Raining all day, I still went over to put in my resume at UW. Bought no shoes—too pricey. Even though I won $25 on my 44 back pair—enough to finance today & tomorrow’s gambling. That pleases me. I finished typing up the “Nothing” book from 1985, so I have no excuse for further work shirk. I think I’ll write about Dad’s last 11 months, and rewrite Matryoshka (sure, why not?). Friday subsides. The tulip trees quiver in the cold. The family people come out. To celebrate. Oh, moms are so chirpy…
Broadway «Bux
Burke Blessed
That’s Solomon Burke singing the original “Cry to Me” & despite the sun (this hot spring afternoon) giving me a hot & sweaty flash, I feel blessed. Fabulous weather. Warm wind & I don’t care if my runny nose comes back. The sky has gone white over in the west, so we may have rain by tomorrow.
Nothing’s going here. Is it the lull before the lull? (Have 3 hopes, but only one is likely & that is inheritance; that comes when it comes—maybe too late—with a sting.) I had a dream about a green Selectric typewriter. I don’t mean the dream was about it, just: there it was. Something hasslish last night but what exactly….blocked pathways—my clogged arteries, probably. Reading about WWII. finishing up the not-interesting ’85 notebook—geeze, my life. (Too little about Mas.)
April Foof
So I finally make it over to the Montlake Libe on a perfectly nice day; I saw nothing except some pink flowers & the drugged eyes of the guy in the blue beater (ancient buick?) who almost hit me. And I walk in the door to find the printer’s bus5ted. But Angela was there & even had some Xerox copies of pix of her boychik. He’s reaching the terrible 2’s. I cursed my luck, changed my computer reservation to
I tried to make a real start on Dad’s leaving, but I don’t think I’m up to a narrative… I may just write down 20 or 200 sentences on the subject. Or I may finish Matryoshka.
Now, wouldn’t’ that be a hoot?
Funny little Asian guy (bald) outside with something on his shoe that looks like a shop-lift anti-device. He smokes like a Chinese (i.e., seriously). I like the young Asian guy in the cargo pants with long ties (streamers?) who does a little time-step & a turn. He’s coo!
Bway «Bux April Foo 2004
Home Suite
I find it hard to express the abysms of agitated boredom I suffer when I spend any time at all in
It’s almost the exact opposite of what I feel listening to these old Brit-pop songs (“I don’t Know Why I Feel Frightened”?—they took down the magic song announcer here, so I have to guess.)
So, what’s the opposite of a thrilled swoon? I don’t know exactly, but that’s what I have at home.
Let’s start with
No there. That once grassy plain with a few (more or less) fir trees—now tacky commerce, junk, tacky houses & cars, cars, cars. The triumph of the machine. The whole place defaced with cheap crap. Chain stores. Chain banks & junk. Big garish plastic signs. The new stuff is as bad as the old.
And the people tend to the prole-ish. Turned out of molds. Conformist & unhappy. I dare say they should be unhappy, but they’re unhappy because they don’t have bigger cars. Half of them are addicted to Rx meds & the other half are making methamphetamine at home. Peasants without a crop.
I shouldn’t take it personally, should I? Well, I don’t, but there it is in my face. Home/family I do take personally. TV is the ruination of the human spirit. TV is an alternative universe: the schlock dimension. It’s yacky, banal, obvious & repetitive, esp. the news: the same “exciting” footage over & over. The documentaries are faked by editing. And the only really exciting parts are the ads. And they never stop. Oh, the variety shows never stop either, except for a moment of sentimental manipulation now & then (And god bless…) And never quiet.
15th Ave«B’s
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