Writing and the journal continues to mutate. I really started to write when I began to struggle—riding the bus and train to work—all that time I had, all the suffering my current job was piling on. My initial thought was to see a psychiatrist, but I realized I could bypass this by writing furiously into a notebook. The notebooks piled up. JOT, my magazine at the time, was quietly coming to an end. My view of the world was becoming more hardened. I no longer believed that chanting on japa malas would save humanity. Just maybe I was tossed in with the rest and was being swallowed up by destruction, and there was nothing I could do about it. I developed for myself the humility of writing small notes (not always philosophical) and “poems,” broken lines, particles, ghosts…
And there were the coffee houses, with open mic nights. I could get up in front of an audience and read what I felt at the time to be the essence of my thought process. Once I overcame the fear of the audience… I tasted purity.
I kicked out my website in the late 90’s, altering its design several times. I kept the fetus as a theme. For one, it represents birth; the mystery of existence; novelty theory – all things new and exciting; the beauty and horror of the womb, being trapped, confined, and released. Released into what? Released into the world? But what is the world? The world of detail. The world of detail can be a sort of playground. But do I really consider myself a writer? An accomplished writer? What is accomplishment? To be published? To be published by a company? To be self-published? The internet has enabled all zine makers to move into a free territory. The nature of publication has changed drastically. But… am I a writer? I can say I have interest in it—sometimes intense interest. But it is safer to say, for now, that I take down notes while I go about in the world trying to notice all things (important or otherwise).
Why be safe? Who wants to read the safe writings of safe people?
. . .
Three new people behind the counter at the coffee shop, much of the usual staff gone. The one guy cut my hair the other day. I ask one of the girls about the new staff. “Yeah, there are going to be some changes around here,” she says, as if she’s being held hostage in her house when someone comes to the door and asks if everything is okay. “But I’m staying.” Good, I tell her. The new manager introduces himself, managed the place back in the early 90s. I don’t give a goddamn fuck about that. I only care about if people are being treated right here, to an extent. I only know a little of what’s going on, but it doesn’t seem right. Have some people been unjustly fired? Did they quit?
I move my gear out front and look at all kinds of stuff on Wikipedia.
It is Friday, but I have a full shift ahead of me for tomorrow. This goes down once every six weeks or so.
The cops are out this morning. They pop up out of nowhere on people, throw their lights on. They are so completely unnecessary it’s unbelievable. Maintain law and order? Is that what they think they’re doing?
New comics are out. 52, Astonishing X-Men, All-Star Superman—to name a few. For those who don’t read this genre, you should definitely reconsider. Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud is a great introduction. And if you’re jumping into the middle of a story, there’s always resources online to catch you up. I recommended Grant Morrison to one friend of mine who picked up The Filth awhile back. The Filth is fucking tripped out, same as The Invisibles.
. . .
Will I die a natural death? Will I live to see the end of this day? Will I have children? Will they like me, and I them? Will time itself come to a crashing halt by 2012? Will we enter the next dimension? Will global warming increase and wipe humanity off the face of the planet? Are we just getting started? Is it true that time and consciousness are accelerating, and if so, towards what? Does it have to be something? Is there a god? Is god angry or psyched or just plain unfathomable?