THIS IS JUST SOME STUFF I WROTE ON BREAK
I'M STILL ON BREAK
WHICH IS ACTUALLY A FULL-TIME SUMMER JOB
TO PAY FOR MY JOB.
DAYS ARE SEPARATED BY A "/"
Games played by men are war and death. I wish I was a better writer. I wish I had the constitution to perform admirably. But all that I am doing now is writing on napkins… words to keep my mind alive for the moment. Words to keep our enemies at bay. Words that filter through my soul like cannon fodder.
How will these words change the world? How can they possibly? I have doubt. My words are unheard. Unseen. Unread. And abused by this litter.
Drum solos. Invariate. Inevitable.
Oars rowing. Rowing.
Going nowhere.
Unevolved.
Disinterested.
Distant. Dissipated distillations determinable damnation.
Damnation.
Damnable dalmatians daring the diary dreamers.
Dairy from the teat of another animal?
WE ARE THE ONLY SPECIES THAT DRINKS THE MILK OF ANOTHER… aside from the housefly.
Caught in the Spider’s web. Caught in a web. /
Am I beyond the brink?
Who is there to look for me in the Caves? Who is there to look for me in the Dead?
AM I DEAD?
OR AM I JUST COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE?
So many things are happening within every given moment, and I used to have the burden of thinking of them all. The entire world used to be in my brain at any given moment, and I became depressed. So I left the world behind and became an ignorant.
I became an optimist determined by my variance of ignorance.
Is optimism ignorance? Is optimism a terrible disease of our past from the Garden?
There is a painting hanging in the halls of the Louvre. Iv’e seen it a few times. A woman. A simple woman, holding a simple smile. The essence of beauty? I’ve no idea what that means.
Maybe she is what beauty meant to the beholder.
But to me, I think of the caked on dirt and grime underneath her fingernails. I think of the blisters on her toes. I think of the shit and piss running down the cobblestone streets. /
There is a space in my brain between my heart and my soul that runs amok with emotion and ill-designed damages. The blinking lights rowing the shore’s call in-cyclical. Stay away. Stay away. Stay away.
Blink.
Stay away.
I’ve heard it tell that most of the lighthouses are machines now. No more operators to sit and man the lights. At one time, that was their life. Sent to the farthest flung reaches of the globe, to live, eat, and sleep, and to keep a single spinning light spinning forever. /
Gifiltafish? Babakanoush? I have no idea how to spell Jewish food, but it all sounds pretty good to me. Wholesome, really. Hard to make! But wholesome. I know this Jewish vegetarian. Is that weird? I’ve never made Jewish food though, I find the idea of having a Rabbi in the kitchen a bit awkward, especially when he knows every time I take a break to go masturbate to relieve stress. /
How many bum-de-dums? How many dum-dums and rum-thumbs? Pfft. /
Grr. Argh. I want my typewriter back. Well, I mean, I’ve always owned this typewriter, but I’m away from it right now. And working sixteen hours a day, takes me away from it. Just eight more weeks for me to delay publishing. Eight more weeks of nothing. I want to move out to this cabin in the middle of the woods - it’s the same cabin where they filmed parts of THE VANISHING, you know, that movie where Kiefer Sutherland has to keep looking for Sandra Bullock? It’s a great cabin, and I don’t watch horror movies, so it doesn’t even seem that creepy to me. Is that even a horror movie though? Maybe just a thriller? Gosh. /
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