Im on a sixty day no alcohol fast.
And it wasnt inspired by a binge. I want to feel mistakes, and all the stress and exstacy of being in this world.
I want there to be a downpoor with black clouds and nowhere to go to. I want everything to culminate in a shocking aftermath. And the shocking fact will be that I have nobody and I genuinely prefer it. People of norwegian decent should never be hermits, were too good at it. We dont know when to stop. Stick us in the middle of an arctic void with a spear and a cup and were perfectly fine. Were like, this is the punishment? Thank god, and goodbye. I bought a lot of Henry Miller books Wednesday because I was at Borders and I was going to buy Clintons book, but it was awful, so I didnt buy it, and walked around and found these Henry Miller books and Im in the store flipping through this stack of six or seven Henry Miller books and thinking this man is a fucking genius, like you pick up a normal pop culture book, you read it over, and nothing, its just a time killer, its just a jigsaw puzzle, who cares. But miller is like William Blake, only intelligible and motivated to stay in the core of basic everyday concerns, instead of falling into the cryptic metaphors like I would. And even when he gets simple, like when he goes on and on about the oneness of god, or some such nonsense, its still effective and interesting, its still interesting and almost convincing. What I bought was Henry Miller on Writing and Stand Still Like the Hummingbird which have essays. And Plexus The Rosy Crucifixion part II even though I only got half-way through part I because I couldnt take it. I didnt get the tropic of cancer/capricorn books though because I was skimming them and none of it would stick, theyre just messy with the art of it all. Too many people have read them, theyre too solid, like theres a scientifically correct way to read them that only college professors know. Too much accumulated admirers hovering over ones shoulder like ghosts. The journal for a couple weeks will be a reaction to or informed by the books. More and more, Im wondering why am I here. Not here in this apartment, but here one this site. Thom says, I dont belong here cause Im a creep. Thom says a lot of duh things that I like. Everythings getting very sex-lies-and-videotape these days, I feel like tearing everything to pieces, throwing everything down the stairs, I need to get some more keys that I dont need. To open some sky lights that I cant reach, except by standing on someone elses shoulders. I want to let the rain in. I want the black clouds to cleans my being like a thirty year flood. I want to be straight edge for sixty days, just because.
And it wasnt inspired by a binge. I want to feel mistakes, and all the stress and exstacy of being in this world.
I want there to be a downpoor with black clouds and nowhere to go to. I want everything to culminate in a shocking aftermath. And the shocking fact will be that I have nobody and I genuinely prefer it. People of norwegian decent should never be hermits, were too good at it. We dont know when to stop. Stick us in the middle of an arctic void with a spear and a cup and were perfectly fine. Were like, this is the punishment? Thank god, and goodbye. I bought a lot of Henry Miller books Wednesday because I was at Borders and I was going to buy Clintons book, but it was awful, so I didnt buy it, and walked around and found these Henry Miller books and Im in the store flipping through this stack of six or seven Henry Miller books and thinking this man is a fucking genius, like you pick up a normal pop culture book, you read it over, and nothing, its just a time killer, its just a jigsaw puzzle, who cares. But miller is like William Blake, only intelligible and motivated to stay in the core of basic everyday concerns, instead of falling into the cryptic metaphors like I would. And even when he gets simple, like when he goes on and on about the oneness of god, or some such nonsense, its still effective and interesting, its still interesting and almost convincing. What I bought was Henry Miller on Writing and Stand Still Like the Hummingbird which have essays. And Plexus The Rosy Crucifixion part II even though I only got half-way through part I because I couldnt take it. I didnt get the tropic of cancer/capricorn books though because I was skimming them and none of it would stick, theyre just messy with the art of it all. Too many people have read them, theyre too solid, like theres a scientifically correct way to read them that only college professors know. Too much accumulated admirers hovering over ones shoulder like ghosts. The journal for a couple weeks will be a reaction to or informed by the books. More and more, Im wondering why am I here. Not here in this apartment, but here one this site. Thom says, I dont belong here cause Im a creep. Thom says a lot of duh things that I like. Everythings getting very sex-lies-and-videotape these days, I feel like tearing everything to pieces, throwing everything down the stairs, I need to get some more keys that I dont need. To open some sky lights that I cant reach, except by standing on someone elses shoulders. I want to let the rain in. I want the black clouds to cleans my being like a thirty year flood. I want to be straight edge for sixty days, just because.
