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8:33) chris abraham 04-JAN-98 19:21

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Ulysses. square eye similar to the one-eyes snake. mine eyes be square
for they are always looking towards and through squareness. no wonder i
am becomming decidedly L7. Slides, theur 35mm image smooth and shiny and
then dull and emulated otherwise. ulysses. young stephen lost me every
time and it is in a world not unlike his in which i feel the need for life
for living for the odd sophistication that would make me finally to wake
up next to a lover.

head full of cleaning fluids. the oven still leaks brown fluid from the
clean. spray foam all over inside of oven, starting at the top, and close
and leave until morning. wipe with warm water, repeat.

two women coming. no deadlines except one. hopkins wants a letter of
intent from me. only 2 pages long but my how I have avoided it. masters
in writing. masters in baiting. cleaning the sheets, keeping the wndows
open for the air outside mirrors closer than not the fine breeze of dirk's
summer. T-shirt weather, 4 Jan 1998. Stayed inside and mucked around.

writing to me is just as it said. the pressure of the journal's leaves
and where to make another mark. pencils like to break off their leads and
although my pelikan writes smooth on the cotton bond, the days of movement
empty fountains into you pocket or all over the pages.

spilled ink and blotches, rubs and smears make a journal. and this little
lcd screen looks up to me in its grayscale. begging me to return to pen
and paper. wondering what I should do with my manual typewriter and would
it be pretentious if I tried writing on it? Tried starting a novel in the
most novel manner?

a surprising number of contemporary authors still use manual typewriters;
a sizable number of writers still use their old reliable selectric II.
And how is that direct response of paper and wrtten notes and white out?
Is that more real and if proust and joyce and hemingway and fitzgerald
could hobble along on their enameled portables.

just ordered the complete poems of hemingway. what an odd thing to buy.
i have zero exp[ectations. and radiohead is speaking to me and saying
that I should fade out again; and fade out again. the words fill the
townhouse and i am so wanting the neighbors to call the police. it has
been a boring day.

my skin crawls. the hair is greasy and falls well without a comb.
wearing black is the answer. scrubbing out the white stains from rubbing
a morning mouth. seeing the hours pass. immoving. orangina and viena
sausage. i'm on a rool; i'm on a roll this time. i feel my luck could
change. 1998. the time is exactly opposite in OZ. pull me out of an
aircrash. i am your superhero. we are standing on the end. lyrics
spinning from the large speakers. _The Breast_ is the name of a novel.
it sits beside me. I wrote the number of a woman into its inner back
cover. a 212 number. the breast. a man wakes to discover he has become
a breast. he is placed in a sling which looks remarkably like the cup of
a mansized brazziere. suck my nipple. lick my nipple. its all he can
think. he think he's insane. thinks his woman will leave if all he wants
or needs in his life is to have his enormous red nipple incessantly
molested. thank you mr. philip roth -- we indulge ya something awful you
brilliant son of a bitch! orangina. javascript. hopkins. wintel.
somethings when i think about the way my mind works caught up in this
parallel processing mind of ours looking for pi, searching for the ideal
form, realising that no matter how well turned a foot, no matter ho tight
an abdomen, no matter how arched a back and how pert a breast, this is but
a shado, this is but an insult to the form. and then i ask, as might have
stephan, what in hell are we going to so as to turn our back and bear the
light? in photography, the only thing one can capture while facing the
light is a silhouette! no matter what, even when turning towards the
ideal form, one may only still glimpse the outline filled with ink. fill
flash. pop. but that is part of you, now --pushing your own waves and
particles so its not parfect any more. evian. high and dry, radiohead.
don't leave me high; don't leave me dry.

two jumps in a week i bet you think that'[s pretty clever don't you boy/
flying on your motorcycle watching all the ground beneath you drop/ you
kill yourself for recognition you kill yourself to never ever stop/ you
broke another you are turning into something you are not/ don't leave me
high don't leave me dry/ don't leave me high don't leave me dry. drying up
n conersation you will be the one who cannot talk/ when all your insodes
fall to pices you just sit and wish you could still make love/ they're the
ones who hate you ... lost the lyrics -- cant keep up...

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Image by Prawny from Pixabay