Here I am looking off the cliff, reading what I can from my books before sleep shadows over and it is Monday morning. My cat is the most serene person in the room. His eyes are closed, making little grunting noises. What it means for me to write as a valid person in the world, is all unclear to me, until I read favorite pieces, letters . . . The bookstores can intimidate a would be writer; he thinks, “What can I add to all this?” standing in the middle, turning the body around to all the different sections: Fiction, Travel, Cooking, Computers, Reference . . . The question still continues to bother him. “What I write, how can it be any different than what is already there?” Anyhow, he expects the most important thing, to reach a conclusion, a certain path to take to escape from darkness and into light. It is not always so clear. In fact, it is madness, and how does one even expect it, to hold the hell together at all?
insists my opponent, having so far beaten me at 3 games of checkers.
My poor, poor vacation is over. I want to cry at the top of the stairs. But I will be all right. And I will stop talking about myself now.
public domain, notes, midnight attempts at breathing simply all fail horizontally so vertically the chair offers something more, at least for the moment. classical music plays. I am wheezing next to the window without medication, bothering myself. my cat also has not fallen asleep. notes on work: the guys, the managers there are incredibly sports obsessed – vomit is in the air. the stupidity is so thick in the air it’s like I float in to the time clock on a hearse. I pull out my book “the Gambler” progressively making my way to the end, loving every sentence of it (I’m up to the last chapter). Dostoevsky is a real writer, he had a real intellect. I write of my own life too, but of course it’s not the same. angrily, I write about how it’s a struggle for me to breathe, because that is this hour’s most pressing engagement. in the day I struggle to tolerate the insolence of the sports announcers, the cruel attitudes they give because they can’t properly do their jobs and screw off the entire time. but enough of that, I have to go downstairs finally and get the asthma tea.
Russian music is playing on NPR. since I’m back to reading Dostoevsky these days, I’m psyched about this. however, the helicopters are a hateful distraction. in my childhood I went for a little ride in one with the local weather man, looking down at the flat firehouse grounds 50 feet below. things are different now.
even some things that appear positive don’t always turn out so positive. I realize the important lesson that I have to simplify. my passions are to read and to write as my own person and let all the other chips do what they want. go on writing books . . . and taking pictures. yes, they had the trains and American winter town set up in the mall. I looked down wishing I was there, in this carefree pure and happy place where it was a flawless Christmas of youth free of cynicism and anthrax and smallpox.
this is one place I come to put the words down. with two jobs now, time is so limited for every single little thing I do. in the evening home I cross the long cold bridge and don’t complain about it. at least not yet.
be kind to that guy passing you
he takes pictures and writes about
anything he wants
but keeps his mouth shut
and really bothers no one