Wednesday, February 13, 2008


Friday morning it’s been nearly 2 weeks since move to front yard. Rick, friend from back yard new celly. I sit at a desk window to left Aerosmith on radio way too much coffee within. If I had my glasses on I could see those on way to work, but I don’t. Hammett might have said it best, in The Dain Curse, “Put enough people in jail, and cities wouldn’t have traffic problems”. Could it be better said? In college and slightly before discovered Cain, Hammett, felt better than Columbus. Some knob in gay ass column dropped statement that this weekend he’ll be reading H Miller in some bookstore. Dude, that’s like letting your loved ones know how many times you shake it, off. This world kind of sucks. Never use H Miller as some prop as some jack off in mirror. Why, first you sound major dar-dar, then as if dignity remains by some one else’s accomplishments. Never use Henry’s name in vain. So anyway finished Capote. Found out dear James never met, but got as close to Edmund White, which is double-barreled. Letter from my mother brings everything home, drifting towards death our words the blanket we grasp. Father still hanging in there though. Sounds he’s truly a trooper. I wish we could eliminate the capacity to think. Just imitation. No question heavy deliberations. I see my name on envelope, her handwriting brings me right into the room sitting next to or across from & we talk & all “this” evaporates. Mom writes nice letters, a Polaroid. Instant, though she wrote over 2 days. She works so hard. My mother & I have a strange but I think great relationship. In one moment I can hate her with all my blood & then next seeing the world thru her eyes or an attempt to. Without question I got my hang up about honesty from her. Well, both my parents. Dad worked a lot anyways. They grew up rough & we grew up less rough therefore our children less er. Eventually our family genes will create bliss. Until now, just honesty. You could and can ask my mother anything, anything and expect not just that she’d answer but answer completely. We grew up Catholic. Upper middle & lots & lots of booze. Anxiety. We were cats in brown paper bags. Frankly Dylan Thomas could have sat at our table. When I first saw Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? I was so happy. I guess we weren’t so strange. The best and fairest assessment is we embraced, ate and wrestled passion & we were taught how to pin & possess that hot little demon. So my point I guess is nothing doesn’t or can’t make sense to me with the exception of mowing the grass. I was, to I’m sure your surprise, a rowdy child. Rowdy is an understatement. So I would escort my parents at a very early age to antique stores auction houses. Dust dirt grime are major turn-ons I love ancient wood, brass and crystal
chandeliers. Love funky barns & basements. So either I’d deal with antiques or become a serial killer. The verdict is still out. Ha! Anyway this is a long way of saying fuck is it cold outside. Like grab that frigid monster and put all bad memories on hold. Wander eyes out the window & relish your skin. Lap your coffee kitten & remember your existence matters. Seal all you love as envelopes mail carbon copy to self and spend morning sockless. I dreamt last night of Colette. Woke up 10yrs younger. Remember the first time she laughed & drank state coffee, alone. I’m blessed. Terrific friends, the most perfect family & memories that make me laugh at birds as peers. I don’t like it that my father is dying. I don’t like it that I’m here & can’t hold him. I don’t like it that I’m weak. That I give into stupidity. That with all “this” knowledge & experience I still fall down the stairs. Like a bug on my back. Squirm in the darkness & Kafka says, “Stop your belly aching” ha!

I wish the press & public would let people grieve & I wish that they’d realize that perhaps it’s better to leave some things alone & sometimes not. I’m saddened by such another young death. I’m saddened by the paper time newscasts to broadcast & knit-pick every detail. As an artist you are given a certain fame in life & this country seems to drag endlessly way beyond. At the end of the day we need to honor we need to allow a certain process to exist. Are we?

I started this ramble petty. Let the guy with strange glasses proclaim his plan to read Tropic of Cancer at local bookstore. Not only who am I, but anyway to get Henry’s work into another’s hand is cool. Sorry.

If any of you are near Oshkosh hit up the college radio station with some requests. Nice station. Not enough true punk though they are doing some sweet new wave. No Belle & Sebastian. I know that’s a strange stretch. But.

So my celly is great & it’s cold as hell.


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