Someone’s birthday—didn’t know
Shirt changed, short-changed, destination change, arrival.
Stupid paper, entertainment all—no wonder the 60% public distrust of the media.
That courtesy of a door held open? No, and not a word spoken, but a dirty look.
Hit the stairs, seven floors, and recent memory of all run many times at once in rage.
The common break, to wait your turn, to sit and scan, memorize…Emmy® winners.
This time bowels may need to be held, standing up—damn GMO white corn chips.
Flash, space—archives—some “complete,” more singles.
Some rushing, ninety-two minutes for entire day “online.”
Came across, good work stuck out—opportunity, idea, something relatively great.
The required, the minimal, the response time, and the substantive nothings.
(Hollow, two: news yet “most viewed home page”; reactions, others’ disgust in him.)
A reliable source, an e-mail sent the day prior—the SPAM treatment? (No response.)
Out of time, head for bathroom, the Japanese-style “let loose!”
Non-organic products bought; more of those chips with pesticide BT proteins
designed to poke holes in the G.I…the main source of IBS today, maybe autism too.
At the other park, the one with squirrels, and seagull crap all over the fountain walkway.
Performance stage ramp scaled up, down steps, then downhill on grass.
More people last time, more couples; this time just two people chatting nearby.
Last time here, one squirrel was chased, and a woman was pulled by a persistent,
presumably male dog on a leash that wanted to get to a female, on leash—male owner.
This time, walking toward the car, it’s a few dogs barking at…the author.
Australian movie, Red Dog, with a kangaroo that dies.
A cartoonish CGI fight between the cat and the dog, and a bet bet. the humans.
Little bits of news—just lines, and Odd, the scheme of faith lost to include
humor in an explicit waste of time, somewhere no one ever goes.
Pages read, now inspired, eager to work, not that hard, material…no, it’s still hard.
Do it now, have the energy, determination, will and possibly enough knowledge.
Neither care nor fully accept consequences of burn-out,
to fulfill life’s pressure to complete a picture of words.
Work, overnight, tight, hit 5 in the morning, 5-to-6 hours sleep.
Trash day eve
Feedback pressure overcomes the new day, much of that on-on-on is still active.
Now prepared, or at least up to yesterday, probably to no one’s dismay.
Have time, near sublime, hit the chair like an office worker, but never any coffee.
Taking time, at first no rushing, the stress to damaged nerves and a damaged heart.
The study of reading the world, or at least what people put in, or “board push pin.”
You could gain another school of thought, or fail and do yourself in.
On a roll, on a run, covering coverage: typing, finishing, common tasks, upload.
Against the world, against oneself, as little frustrations surface on mistakes.
“F**kers,” under breath, compulsion from passive—the curse against oneself, the world…
A large one, and the confronted self-doubt, but out…and a goddamn mess, no doubt.
Dilemma, how it started: to write when everything has likely been covered already?
In that case, discouraged or results superfluous?
And that other memory, dark: one to write, document all experienced,
relative to that one, single, self-centered, self-absorbed piece of– writer??
No off-putting suburban youth in the smaller park; however, ducks were all over,
and bread was fed, despite the warning of crap possibly showing round the car.
Now home, one song reflects a national anthem of dejection
—what do I stand for, and to hear that it was already heard.
It’s dark again; light on next door, unlike the last time? Pre-trash day.
Carry bags, then copy, read, learn, intelligent and funny.
Processing, paper inserted for recycling, Greta Gerwig in Damsels in Distress,
two musical numbers into credits—
More reading, the reaction, the “speed-writing means ‘shorthand,’ you idiot!”
The start of an attempt to make up for the mistake—Mistake!—writing anew.
Worked through the pain, and played music before sleep, and more sleep.
Missed the deadline.
The up and down in expectations and feelings of getting somewhere,
only to be crushed, and again. “What a horrible life.”
Energy spent, and the heart was open, as far as the mind would allow.
Yet nothing happened in a month. This thought already occurred two days before.
’Better the previous, perhaps? “And now you acted as if you knew something??”
A “student’s student,” a “quick” comment turned long, then overarching,
then with the “understanding of how the universe works,” short but “complete.”
Then the tongue— “who do you think you are, you bastard, you creep!”
The determined text was rather pedantic, and his last puts him in his place,
not taking it well at all, even to criticize all else—a comment in moderation,
with words missing in a “sorry if I’m being too, blah, blah.” Bastard.
And so he gets the feeling to quit and delete everything, or at least take a break.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder” felt true here, for an unmitigated disaster!
he needs to yell. He feels others’d be better off w/o him, his self-absorbed practice.
What he wrote on paper as far as notes go were far worse than what was typed.
At least he’s right on the “self-absorbed practice” part…
And yet things still magically fall into place. Wh—oh, now it’s removed. Never mind.
(A few corrections were made on 9.29.)