Bumper sticker: Gone Crazy, Back Soon
Okay, settle down everyone. Here are some more notes from the blue filigree notebook:
Laura believes Dick has killed the last of a rare species of insect on their windshield.
In the end, I don’t deny I have it coming.
I hold grudges clutched tightly to my sweet, perfumed bosom.
You sick, sad, pathetic little bitch.
So much of life becomes unbearable, from the hurt of loneliness to the simple notion of 7 a. m.
Journal, 1989: “My tears would run to the ground from the back of my hand. Someday they would fall gently from the branches of leafless trees in winter.”
After all the loss, only the loss remains.
My hatred was so pure it gave me chills.
Henry Miller’s day: eat, fuck, write, repeat.
Now, more than ever, I am certain you will never understand me.
I’d rather spend the rest of my life alone than spend another moment here with you.
I like the way he describes insanity with music.
No one ever said the apocalypse had to happen in a day.
They fuck to feel loved and love to feel fucked.
A cold, wet wind penetrates me and my intentions.
I hope that after I’m gone, you all choke on my bones.
Every song is about me.
Journal, 1982: “No matter what I write, it doesn’t make any difference what anyone thinks of it. Then why write? To get at the truth, to find out what really matters.”
I lost it all in her eyes.
It seems like there was a lot of ground for Burroughs and Kerouac to break, but now it’s all chopped up by a big machine.
I sound so weak when I say that you’re beautiful.
You turn your hate against yourself because you’re the only one you can punish.
I could smell the news
when I was 19
all black and white
ink and silver
weight on my shoulders
for collecting gold
the taste of impure death
throbbed in my temple
Houston, the ego has landed.
There but for the obvious… I dreamed I was in a room with a deep violet-purple chair, and I was aware that the chair was pure anxiety.
The answer to the question of whether to run or hide is simple: close my eyes. If it escapes my notice, it escapes reality.
Nobody hates me in my dreams.
The Hunter Becomes the Hunted… I dreamed I was hunting caribou, and I was naked for the first time in my life. I am nakeder than the day I was born by a factor of five. I hunt the caribou with lightning bolts that seem to come from the sky, but also seem to come from me.
Words only hurt when we swallow them without chewing.
Hating them is only hating myself, poorly concealed.
“All my other friends are just noise, but you, Richard, are quiet.” ~Jamie, 2002
Notes fall on my ears like rain on a lake.
I sit in stunned silence, waiting for the world to make its next move.
20˚ outside, but in this heart, it’s 40 below.
I am a sound you can’t hear. I am a light you can’t see.
I think this post may have been overshadowed because you posted it on the same day of the National Prayer Breakfast. You should have gone to cover that story!
I do love reading your earlier pre-internet entries! I hope you will post more. I love my sense memory of the smell of the news. The ink is still in my blood.