Great Expectations

Moving. Tonight, tomorrow. Sorry. I haven't updated as much as I'd like, and that's unacceptable. No excuses, only reasons. I've been rather engaged in self-destruction lately, and just haven't had time. No really. My bad karma has been added to at such a disgusting pace, that I wonder that I haven't been plagued with locusts.

I need the world to change. I always have.

Cancer

I suppose what broke me was this: I gave up more than I ever wanted to. I used to know where to draw the line, how to build Maginot lines. I can't describe how I love her, or her, or her. I can only tell stories. That's all I ever had. I can only measure my love in what I've given for it, and the more I give, the longer it takes for me to exist outside the late night emails, the descriptions of how I've fallen from what I was.

I destroy myself like I was a talisman of love for you. I sully, I desecrate. I fuck till dawn on coke and I don't apologize for transgressions, for the bruises left. I'm a tease and a flirt, an empty vessel. I gave this up for you. I gave up myself, and until there is someone worth my being the innermost, and best, part of myself, I will fuck and drink and pursue reckless emptiness with all the passion that I once showed you, in the early morning, on a single bed in JP. In the common. In the arboretum, when all I could do was hope you didn't see me staring at your ass through my book.

I can only hope that something comes along to bring out that innermost, that best part of myself; or that you come back, or that I finally through sublimation achieve the complete destruction of the good, so that I can live, and fuck, and drink as one not plagued by the gross responsibility of time.

Paris in Winter

"I bought my first tv set about a week ago. So far I've seen a Nova program about Mars- it was magnificent- and Monday Night Football. Both great."

-John Cheever, 1976

Questions of Importunity

You searched through my poets
from Sappho through to Auden
I saw the book fall from your hands
as you slowly died of boredom

I feel tired. I'm exhausted. I'm a scientist.



Live it out, walk off the differences and believe for a few minutes. Don't care what it might mean for your dignity. Five months and nevermind. Treat the past like the sterile, dead thing it is. Wake up.

Embrace empty-hearted appeasement, leave be. Cancel subscriptions and take your coffee black. Don't wait until 4 July to shoot your rockets off.

Swine flu, and the increasing meaninglessness of fear. I just want to thank you for going insane.

Encode the difference in how you hold your cigarette. A little less expectation. A little more fancy free, a little more fanatic fantasy. A little more alliterative alteration; memory becomes narrative, memory narrative, and the world gets a little smaller.

My dog

Tucker died today. He was run over by a car in front of the North Carver Church.
I'm burying him in the front yard with my father.

Lackluster

I only want to talk to two people right now. One is dead. The other I would give anything to drink a sixpack in the basement of the store with, and then listen to Johnny Quest.

I need my heart rebroken. It didn't set right the last few times.

I am a law of diminishing returns.

It's not that the world is unfair, that's not true. The world is cruel. It's uniformly cruel, and capriciously cruel, but fairness doesn't enter in to it.

Constructions in Time

It's about how we understand time passing. We have the arrow of time: the measure of an increasing force of entropy, the slow passing of moments and the constriction of freedom, just like a chess board. A complexity of 10 to the 123rd power gets wittled down, each move consigning each player to fewer and fewer choices.

We decide ourselves in the same way, our freedom of movement growing smaller and smaller until we are patterns, automatons whose only remaining move is to die.

We repeat our actions, call it personality. We consign ourselves to the dustbin of psychohistory, we become our own explanation. We lose our inscrutability.

Did you know that I haven't ever really fallen out of love? Not that I've fallen in love so many times as to leave a bevy of unfulfilled desires in the back of my mind, but that I don't know how one switches it off- I don't know where they go, these loves that once were; mine linger and stink up the place.

All I want is freedom of motion- and the opportunity for my actions to be those of an inscrutable agent- and I don't see either of those things happening in this world.

I want something new, and I won't stop being a complete jackass until I find it.

Great,

Xala.

That's it. That's the entire entry.

Creepy enough for you yet?