Thomas Walpole Pissing on a Glass Harmonica in the Dark in My Look Book

Third day in a row of almost writing. Working on my novel, you see. Big chapter, this one. Trying to put together a structure I can give a fuck about. It’s been terrible around here. A lot of waiting around in the blackness, in the fuckery of conjecture and shadow puppets, invaded every now and then by a fair haired idea that makes me whistle and vomit and draw prostitute eyes on the ceiling and I get a little further, and then the happiness recedes and it’s back to eating old shoes and making the grand tour of my asshole until the next piece comes. It’s because I keep trying to top myself that I have to plan this shit out like a suspension bridge. How right and real it would feel to sit down at my desk and blast this fat bitch to pieces this weekend. How good for the arteries that would be, how strong and clean, like telling the truth or slapping a nice, round ass. Can’t indulge myself too fully. Things at stake. This chapter’s got to make the girls sloppy or I’ll never get that Tesla. Plus, I was raised right. Came up reading Europeans who actually tried. Latin and prose periods and architectonics. Thought must have order and true clarity and lock together like a Horace poem and Joyce’s menses spasm about the classical style and Horace and Verlaine and Thomas Walpole pissing on a glass harmonica in the dark and whatever the fuck and whoever fucking cares. And I’m nothing if not a responsible classicist. When it isn’t sleeping, my dick recites the Greek anthology.

Doing good shit these days. Morning burpies on the dirty carpet. Eating eggs. Mixing some salad in with the UberEats. Tried not to look at my phone upon rising this morning (failed). Try to restrict my digital diet during writing hours to classical music stations and the Kindle app, though it’s even odds that I’ll break down in a moment of writerly cuntiness and watch, not even David Dobrik videos, but the videos of the idiots he surrounds himself with, like Heath and Zane. Thatta boy, you fucking charmer. Devote years of your life to becoming a legitimate artist, and then when it’s time to stake your own claim in the world of letters, burn half of that prime of life wondering why Emma Chamberlain looks better without makeup. I know, I know. I should be shot, and then raped, and then shot one final time. I agree with you fully. You hold out hope that these are just some of the mandatory absurdities that befall the spiritual rock-climber, the strange twists to which the flesh is heir when under the boot of this work. You hold out hope for yourself, but you also wonder whether these are not the nascent stirrings of a complex of impulses that will leave you the kind of guy who lurks in the back of parking lots, covered in green paint, insisting that he’s a dragon. You may need a woman in your life after all. Let her bullshit ground you at day’s end. Someone pink and aproned, who can sing you to sleep with her songs of simplicity, or better still some batty Kathy Acker with a bone through her lip, whose feminist shitstorm you can lean back and watch, abstracted to introspection, like you would a roaring fireplace. Stay tuned.

Last updated January 16, 2020