Up early this morning, early in that dark, deep lightless well of predawn before the sun comes up and the trees make their appearance through the black. Drank an energy drink first thing, hoping to muscle out of my bloodstream the melotonin I popped last night, sitting nude and cross-legged on the rug before the open fridge, contemplative. A grey, fucked, dumb hanging grey January day is crawling up the air now with its veil of impenetrable clouds gaping at you dumbly like a messenger who’s forgotten what his message was. Nothing is more annoying than an unimpressive sky. Give us a goddamned show or for god’s sake give us our money back so we can spend it on something edifying, like live tits or a nice whetting stone or a capri sun with its straw wrapped tight in cellophane like a small child in his snow suit heading outside to fuck about on frozen hill. I haven’t any great thing to say. I hate most people and they appear to return the sentiment as I haven’t done a thing or spoken to a person in some time. A soft bed and an internet connection is more or less a life unto itself. Been staring at these walls so long they’re starting to stare back. They never tell you coming up that sometimes the golf game of life will let you get lost in a sand trap where you lose literally dozens of strokes, cursing and sweating, and throwing down half drunk beer cans in a rage. It’s cool. Patience is a virtue, but then, so is Hari-Kari, according to certain Japanese purists. The writers are meant to live actively, I’m told. The poet Lermontov was all about gunplay on the lawn, Emerson jimmied open his wife’s casket a year after her death and took in her soupy figure apparently for the writerly thrill of it, Buk had to play the horses every day and needed 2.7 literary groupies to turn up on his doorstep each month or his writing lacked that special frothiness. Life, lively life like living as life should livingly be lived. LIFE! Sure, and certainly. I’ll do it. There’s nowhere to go, though. We don’t have a horse track out here. I may be able to gamble on how many heroin addicts stumble past my window today singing “I’m a little teapot” but I don’t know if they make forms for that, or if they do, where I can go to pick them up. I’ll get it all together today, I tell you. I’ll get it. I’ll get it.
Last updated January 14, 2020