Read the communist manifesto- what a fucking joke. The utopia is just too far away – and who wants to share and give over what they have “fought so hard for”? I know my Uncle Roger and Aunt Lee would prefer not to, and a few others on the list as well.
Trying to read frakenstein and not hate it – but I do – it’s so ridiculously dry and unforgiving to the mind. Just on and on with topsy-turvy words that describe but never amount. I don’t know why it’s so great, I feel nothing from it. Screw Mary Shelley and fuck the stein, give me back my beats. Also started poems for the millennium, and it’s damn good, at least one out of three books for class haven’t turned me off . . . .
Work tomorrow for which I am not pleased, I hate it there. I’ve worked I think now – 23 hours, or 25 something, who knows? But it’s so mundane I feel like I’m dying. Every minute passes slowly and upon my nerves like cement, tick the clock clicks, and I’m still there. I do however have an interview with Hallmark, and the bookstore on Lark is hiring so I’m hoping to satiate the wallet by means not of the school bookstore. This week I am scheduled to work over 45 hours, that’s murder on the mind, and on my heart. To hell with them. They can suck my dick.
Reckoning is tonight. In new paltz, so close, and I am not there. Sad, would have loved to see them, hear them, dance to them, and laugh with friends. But here I be. In Albany. which I have grown to love.
Called my mother today. The machine voice, stroke caused, and I wanted to hold her. She sounded so little, so unlike her callous, quick self. . . the voice of the mother I remember was hasty, pulling us around by just her tongue, quick lip and laugh so loud the smoke flew around her mouth, her fake teeth browning as the sun rose and set. I don’t know if I’ll call her again, maybe. She scares me . . . . well, no, she doesn’t. But the idea of her scares me. What she was to me. Who she is now to me. Where she will be to me. She sounded non-chalant, “okay honey, love you” . . . as though just yesterday and the 15 years between she was coddling me with her love love love you’s but she wasn’t, she hasn’t, and I won’t be fooled by her, I won’t fall for her again.

written:
August 29, 2003
7:56 p.m.

And I’m so fucking dry . . . every ink well, dream well, thought well has gone and dried itself out, leaving me parched and confused . . .. Misusing the common verb, and shoving adjectives where they don’t belong just to make myself amused. Smothering myself with the moaning fits of a hypocritical Adam duritz; on and on he eases me in such a way I feel like I should feel ashamed. Using someone else’s outlet as my own, when I know full well I have the capacity to create a path that could save myself. I wouldn’t have to climb upon his lifeboat and shove him over, whining and wailing beside him. And who am I to say he is? When it is me here, using him. He isn’t up all night, beating down my door, sliding under the windowpane, to catch a glimpse of my strength, begging me for answers on how to carry on. So why am I there . . . waiting for him. Because, I answer myself, I am dry. Fucking dry.

And I was talking to mike one day. Smiling into the ideal of having my own space. My place. Where I could be myself, all night, all day…. And it would be the best. Right? Because yes, it would be mine. My walls. My door. My locks. My books. And I read. Two books already. But all I have written is this, and it’s just a bunch of lines that I go back over and eliminate. Nothing stays upon my page without being bludgeoned to death by my fateful mouse, click, drag, delete . . . gone. And such is the life of my writing. To be born from my pen is to die by my pen, never seeing the sun, the sky, the trees, the eyes of the readers all-cowering from my authority that I boast but never prove. Soon they will all laugh, the girl who cried wolf. . . . Err, should I say, writer. Both the same. Preying, pouncing, pounding over the snow in fury looking for food, warmth, love, anger, pain and beauty all in the same second. That’s the point of production. That’s where “the magic happens” . . . but it doesn’t. Not yet. Not for me. Never. Because I do not make it such.

And like that, I leave the topic, and get into my tiny lifeboat leaving the island of thought afraid to complete the sentences, afraid to close the chapter. I am constantly begging the past to come back, let me apologize for that let me forgive it for this.

I have a mantle. Beautiful marble mantle surrounding a black encased fireplace, that once I’m sure, was someone’s delight. Where they would sit in this small room, and gaze inside the flames flickering upward. The snow creating images of ease in the trees that lined the brick streets, rail cars going this way and that, the laughter of a man dressed as Santa ringing his bell on the edge of the car, waving at the window shoppers. And this mantle is mine. Where the incense burns, and bends under the blowing of the fan that stands at the edge of the room. Where the pictures of connection rest, of proms I went to, and love I have, and four leaf clovers packaged into a frame for good luck, and tiny keepsakes gathered over my love and loss of years and years. At the floor, where the logs would have rested, green bottles stand surrounded by candles that I smile at for this winter, when the darkness closes in so early, drawing the depression around my shoulders, I will have these tiny lights to remind me of the nights of beauty and innocence of my youth. Where nothing was a worry, and nothing was ever hurried, and I could lean upon the shoulders of the strongest anytime I wanted. Not right now.

To my right, shelves upon shelves of books I love, and have read. I love them. God, I do. Before anyone, anything, everything I love them. They have been my savior, my world, my all every time I’ve ever felt ashamed, sad, happy, in love, I can’t say enough about them. The cruelest blow to me, in the time of enemies, would be for someone to harm them. I’d rather suffer the fate myself, physically then to have visions of Cody be beaten, or for the bell jar to be thrown into a burning. In this thinking, I wonder, is it my feeling of not measuring up that keeps me from writing? To feel like I’ll never compare, not matter my endeavor. To be a failure is to stand before this shelf and be looked at by those names I know and love, and not be good enough to join them. Why try? Why not just be satisfied by staring at them? Reading them? Sharing them? Why try to join them? I will not ponder the ideas of this anymore tonight; it’s a strange taste of psychology I don’t want to taste.

I have this, my reason for not writing, gone. And still, I am writing about not writing. I am hopeless.


written august 24 @ 815pm

reflections:

last weekend . . . on 8/8 sean picked me up ~ we trekked out to darien lake(about 4 hours) to find some friends and folks gathered to hear dead/dylan/hunter - and we had lawn seats, and was really happy to hear hunter, as he played terrapin - and oh my - that makes my mood immediately happy. our seats on the lawn were free from others, and was nice to lay down a few times and just listen . . . then dylan went on - and i was just - scared. i miss the man that made me fall in love with poetics in music... the voice of a beast came thru - as he tried to rasp thru a tamborine man - i was really sad. kept looking at sean, like "this isn't good" . . . then he went out - met up with mike and julia - and went down near the soundboards by the rest of the gang . . . . and the dead came on! what a beautiful set. i danced so hard i cleared a huge space for more dancing folks ... and got a few compliments which always makes a grin come, modestly of course :). . . and a stranger even stopped me to take a picture of my BEAT POET tattoo - admiring it for a piece, and i continued on dancing. we missed the encore (from the seats but heard some in parking lot) to beat traffic - and we drove on 6 hours!!!! till 5 a/m to get back to sean's house. sleep till 10a/m ... eat breakfast, and bus into NYC, and train out on the LIRR to freeport, where matt picked us up and housed us and beered us :) till the jones beach show -
wow, what a crazy group of gazebo folks. .. .
jones beach is beautiful and nice, the rippling water on al sides of the stage, but the dance room sucked, and the no re-entry too . ..
but liked that we got a few reprises - one being cassady :) which i had hoped for! and a minglewood too for sean.
went back to todds in the back of lique's van, and did a screened in porch few hours - talking of minotaurs, and visitor and such silliness that kept us laughing for a bit. finally went to bed in the dark dark cellar and slept till 130 the next afternoon!
woke up. dunkin donuts, and hurry - get to beach! and do it all over again - only this time on the screens i saw some amazing visuals - doors. opening in mountains, and in the water . .. thought of aldous huxley and had this really amazing connection (in my head) with the writer and then later with jim morrison - as he felt it too - just a really good vibe. told it to sean when i sat down.
but then i felt an overwhelming sigh of down time - and reflected on friendships... with meg, christy and heather. more female based. Started missing them all. Wishing meg and i were as close as we were. and wondering if christy was good. (glad i got to see her a few days later:) ) and talk to heather - those two felt damn good. my best, oldest friends. they both rock :)
back to lizzards. didnt stay up late, my energy was lost... and losing. sleep. wake and drive back up with kate and dale - got to albany around four.... walked some, and slept. . .
what a dead journey we made . . . . :) dont regret one second.

a crazy moment, to be sure - the reflection of the past year, the biggest time in my being for living and loving the dead . . . more then any year previous. in leiu of his birthday decided on listening to a show and sitting here, midnight special, naked and singing some, random reflection on the attractions made thru the connections, the common handshake turns to hug - when it comes to the celebration over the bridge of music and a man we love, and a man we know loved us. a plane of emotion no one can fathom, but us. family. brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers. . . . home. happy birthday jerry