I am losing it.
Too often, those who misunderstand you are also unable to do anything other than mistrust you.
It’s a history lesson.
I was reading back through some of my older stuff the other night. Like 2000, and 2002. There are a lot of typos. I didn’t realize just how wildly and haphazardly I sometimes pound on my keys as I write these things.
You know those moments that you have, those surreal moments, that you file away in your imagination under “I’m sure I’m gonna remember this moment and the way it smells and tastes and feels for a long time to come, maybe even for years,” and that you then forget by next week?
I had one.
I was parked against the curb on some random Santa Barbara street than ran alongside a thicket containing a loud but otherwise invisible creek. It was dark, maybe eight in the evening. My sunroof was down and it was cold. My seat was back. I was drifting in and out of a worthless, uncomfortable sort of sleep. But anyway, the thing that impressed me so incredibly was the croaking of the frogs somewhere outside my window, alongside the creek, in the cold black of the early evenings.
There must have been ten thousand of them.
And all of them were croaking at once.
I am trying not to let hopelessness overtake me.
There is no answer sometimes but to avoid living in the moment.
And sometimes you wonder a lot about the people you’ve known over the years that you no longer know. They’re trapped somewhere inside you and never age. You never get closer to them, and you never get more distant (forgetting, as you always do, that you never talk to them anymore and haven’t done in so very long).
I used to have clocks.
For years, on the wall of my room in my parents house, was the word — in giant block letters, scrawled manaically by me on a night that I can’t quite remember, when I was high on I don’t know what —