Post-birth

Unceremonious to discover fleas in the bed at such a late hour. One on you. Oh, one on you, too. The source of bites from the weeks passed is discovered here. Now we twitch in paranoia. Scratch reddened inflammations.

It is good to sit and read and write. I’m glad to have this morning time in which I can make a session out of it for myself. I have big dreams of some kind of book or zine worth writing. The sessions are subject to the weather and the weather of people. Sitting here like this at a coffee shop, I expose myself to the elements. And it is good.

I am still practicing a different type of writing, one that flows for me in a way where I hardly glance with my eyes – I think of the words ahead of time and these are outsourced to my fingers at the highest rate possible.

. . .

A Fugazi song from the Red Medicine album is playing. A guy is getting loud on his cell phone. These are the worst kind of talkers in a public space.

I sat down with my chess book in Whole Foods the other day and this guy settled in next to me, saying hello, commenting on the weather. Later we broke into conversation and towards the end he asked me if I was interested in e-commerce for which I gullibly gave him my phone number, not realizing fast enough that he was talking me up the whole time simply to gain a new recruit. When he called later I said I was currently too busy in my life and could be interested somewhere down the line, but… “Okay, I’ll call you in two years or so…” That was strange, I thought. “Okay, well good luck to you…” I said, but he was already hanging up the phone. We had wasted each others time. What a bunch of bastards we are for not being of use to one another.

Two years from now we will unexpectedly reunite and e-trade empty salutations in the many tiers of a multi-marketing hell.

Fuck hellos and the weather. They mean nothing next to your desperation to get what you need from me and move on. Motherfucker.

. . .

Friends, check out this movie The Dreamers. Put close attention on the scene where he is talking about his lighter at the dinner table. Perhaps more on this later.

. . .

What is happening with Myshkin? He is moving into his new place, a hovel. Can he foresee the abusive onslaught? They are all ready to bring it to the table. Human train wrecks. Disaster areas. You want a news story, check out the domestic scene. There’s some news. Give these people a microphone and they’ll hold onto it for hours, talk past the commercials, everything. “And then there was that time when I put out my cigarette on the back of my daughter’s hand. I was messed up then and she has come to forgive me. She is all grown now, pregnant even, with her second child.” Things are not all in place. The perfect babies we once were… we’ve been flung from windows and what have you.

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