M
Y
S
T
I
C��
T
A
C
O��
S
T
A
N
D
Notebook Variations ... September 22, 2004
(this entry was written entirely on notebook paper and then transcribed word for word into digital format for your personal ammusement. well, it's really not funny if you're not me. you aren't me, right?)
first come my impressions of reality...
a black car appears out of thin air and i am caught like a deer in headlights. what was i thinking of? the driver, newly spawned out of the ether for all i know, pulls the car to a stop and waits with the engine still running as i come to my senses and walk past.
a man holds a cell phone to the side of his face like it's his true love. i can hear him weeping. somewhere else, i can hear cooling fans whirring and blowing warm air, like breath, from his electronic embrace.
a woman with a wheeled backpack turns into mother goose with a gosling in tow. she smiles at her walking companion, but her teeth seem jagged and bloodstained in the feeble moonlight. probably just another illusion.
grave markers rise out of mist, death erections in stone. one last futile stab at immortality, fucking the world, fucking the future.
identical houses aligned in perfectly straight rows become suburan sausage links, containers of the ground up waste meat of society.
a girl lost in thought on the steps of the closed library. the cigarette in her mouth has gone out. you walk on by thinking she might be thinking of you, but she's not, of course.
what does all that shit mean? what makes me write all these words that no one will read? i'm going to wad this page up as soon as i'm done with it and throw it in the trash. i look to the future when i'll have more time for this. i realize this so-called future will never come. still, i would write it all even if the universe were to end and i were floating alone in a dark void with my notebook and pencil clutched tightly in my hands. this is what i am made for. until the graphite runs out, the paper of the world is all used up, i won't be able to stop. even after that the dialogue i am currently pouring out over these pages would continue in my own head. i've opened a floodgate in my mind. if i tried to curb the flow, the thoughts would pool up in here, a wild torrent temporarily entrapped by what would prove to be a flimsy and inneffectual dam.
i am not my mother's daughter anymore. if they could still speak, my ancestors would disown me. they would disavow that their seed had produced such fruit as i.
what good is progeny that wishes to create chaos? what good is fruit or seed if it does not spawn the order that makes up the fabric of all things living? that's what kind of fruit i am. like the apple in the garden of eden, i am fruit from which only death can arise. i am a dead end in the evolution of the human race.
sometimes i wish i could die simply so i would have more time to write. heaven and hell, if there are such places, would be nearly identical for me. lock me in a tiny room with walls dirtied by years of smoke, put me at a card table with a typewriter on it, make sure i had an ample supply of paper and ribbons, then leave me for eternity. perhaps in hell the paper would already be filled with words.
- previous - next -
- the old -
profile -
leave a note -
contact -
DiaryLand makes me put this link here.
Please click on it before they cut off another one of my fingers!