I was gonna write about drama, thanks to Lydia. But instead I wrote about Jerry Falwell and Tom DeLay.
This week I self-identify. Interesting. It’s been a while since that was my project. Oh well. I won’t think about it too much.
It’s been a few days since that down there.
Life is really fscking confusing.
N+1 hours, days in the Regenstein library with words swimming in front of me and it is unclear exactly what I have accomplished. Or why I am reading it. It feels like this quarter is just a patience game: wait for deadline crunches and then try to deliver on them; in the meantime, do nothing much that’s going to stick with me, but call it “reading.”
I really want to read Sacher-Masoch again. I also wish it wasn’t winter, I want to hang out with some seagulls.
I am desperate to say something here, but there is nothing to say.
I’m back in the same old position as ever. Shit.
“I’ll tell you now, you had better make a rule, boy, and abide.”
This has been a public musing.
I am still trying to write this damn thing but I don’t have anything to say, culture has already eaten me, I am everyone else’s words and ideas.
Plus I just don’t give a fsck. Everyone will turn up with post-feminist essays pointedly tweaking the concept of gender. They’ll pretend it’s fresh and new and “intellectual.”
Meanwhile, I got nothing.
In real life, it is a foregone conclusion: you will do pointless, stupid things, and you will regret them. If you’re me, you will also try to take them back, rather than just trying to let them go and avoid making a bad thing worse.
It is now almost 3.00. Perhaps I will count the hours here, as though a world beyond my own sense exists. Heh.
I am biting my lower lip. It is bleeding. Now I have to fondle my lip with my tongue in order to damage it further.
Sometimes you run into someone so fscking cool that you just want to give up and scrag yourself now before it becomes alarmingly clear that you’ll never have that much honesty in your little fscking finger.
I was made to segregate. No, not connotatively. Reflexively. Nevermind, nobody gets it. No matter, it was for me anyway. That’s what I’m claiming now. Fsck off.
I’m back to hating everything again.
i think i understand,
down into the basement parts of your geometry i
seem to have fallen in the smooth, grey-blue
shadow of this evening’s dark, reflective ring and though i
really don’t understand what i am seeing,
what you told me and why you aren’t winking,
have a little faith this time, and i’ll
put on a warm, clean smile this time, and maybe
later when we come together i’ll see a little dawn, like a
january walking song, like
there goes your breath all white in front of you and the
tuesday traffic sings in your ears and it’s all
That the world exists independently of me or my wishes is the largest affront I can imagine. Why should it exist without me!?
Why should I not be at the gravity-center of everything!?
Wow, a life without Northern Exposure. That’s rough.
Yes, friends, I’m hurting a little. But it’s nice to have friends who will share (dare I say understand?) your pain, even if only partially.
On balance, life is shite.