GUAH. mmmph. molasses in the veins. sticky, slow- movers. superficial down-to-earth in an earthen manner…what can we do with nonsense when that’s all that’ll come for us? rusted lines and leaks IN; nothing’s getting out worth recording, just flubs and mucks. that’s what this is for, to get going. i haven’t poked my head out of doors, into the world, in a week. I don’t know what’s going on and i’ve pulled the nails out of my face but there’s wound mustard in my teeth and i’m a walking stye. The urge to bleed Bukowski is always gnawing. I AM that much of an asshole sometimes. Do I care? Am I capable of pulling it off? Will they just hate me? Do I care?
mMMPH. we dance slow on the bottom of the river, with the cats.
I’ve lost a book of stamps somewhere. I’ve written a family email to a cousin and sent it to two wrong addresses. No one’s written back.
The minute this illness is up I’m getting the fuck up and MOVING, going tactile. Too much construction in my life. Too much world-building, too much direction, too much orchestration and not enough play.
I’m feeling the walls of the academy bubble. Within this environment things can only go so far. There is a ceiling brought on by locality, immobility. The same people read you all the time. Get to know you. Give you leeway that no audience will EVER give you. Make excuses for you. Read much deeper than what you’re capable of.
I literally have nothing to say for fear that it’ll be accepted.
mmph. All the forehead wiping and temple-squeezing is causing me to break out. I just want to fall into a trap.
Castor oil beneath the fingernails. I smell like the cat.
Shower and moving forward. Waist-deep with a wake.