Monday, January 30

The irresistable proliferation of graphomania among politicians, take drivers, childbearers, lovers, murderers, thieves, prostitutes, officials, doctors and patients shows one that everyone without exception bears a potential writer within him, so that the entire human species has good reason to go down into the streets and shout' We are all writers!'
For everyone is pained by the thought of disappearing, unheard and unseen, into an indifferent universe, and because of that everyone wants, while there is still time, to turn himself into a universe of words.
One morning (and it will be soon), when everyone wakes up as a writer, the age of universal deafness and incomprehension will have arrived.

Thursday, January 19

What though the field be lost ?
All is not lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield.
- Satan, Paradise Lost

Ran into __ at Small World this afternoon. Saw him before he saw me. Thrill at the sight of him, the slight slouch of broad shoulders, paint in his hair. That threadbare shirt, so ancient it is more an idea than a shirt. I wanted him to discover me the same way, so I turned away, browsed an Illuminati chapbook. Knowing how I looked against the light through the window, my hair on fire. Waiting to stop his heart.
Rivers. They are women. Starting out small girls, tiny streams decorated with wildflowers. Then they are torrents, gorging paths through sheer granite, flinging themselves off cliffs, fearless and irresistible. Then they grow fat and serviceable, broad slow curves carrying commerce and sewage, but in their unconscious depths catfish gorge, grow the size of barges, and in the hundred year storms, they rise up, forgetting the promises they made, and drown everything for miles around. Finally, they give out, birth-emptied, malarial, into a fan of swamp that met the sea.

Wednesday, January 18

I wish to work in Ice Cream.
And then there were hugs.

Tuesday, January 17

I feel rather mean. The externalities are gone, things have become super peachy. And I don't talk to people that I used to talk to all the time anymore. I don't reciprocate certain affections directed towards me. I live in my bubble, the bubble keeps me happy. I don't care about how things will go with certain people anymore, I don't care about their lives. I don't remember what it felt like anymore. I have no contact with the margin, with the once rather familiar sharp sense of Me.
I think about all of them, but I will not lie. I'm rather glad I don't feel that way anymore. If I had to revert, I could. I'm sure. I'm stronger and though I seem to be slowly losing touch with certain aspects, I can't get the glass out of my system.
I do feel more balanced though. I think I know more and I think more importantly, I need less. Knowledge is power. I can see events as a linear chain. There is underlying structure. I see the chain and I can see there is a bigger picture, and this is not it.
Most of all I'm happy.
I send love to the children.