October 4, 2010 (9:01pm)

Another boring correspondence displayed eagerly for gratitude (damn this is hard. I’m trying to write using the alphabet in succession as the first letter of each word). Historically I jam keen lessons meticulously nearing other possibilities, quite repulsive. Some things usually veer when Xeroxed; yes, zany.

OK I’ll definitely have to practice that a lot more with a much better setup (thesaurus; dictionary, lots of erasers). Possibilities are endless; materials can be as well, it all depends on what you don’t mind using and determining what will be using you…stupid! Fear of a ghost, coast-to-coast, loss of hope and no it doesn’t make any sense, but we’re not breaking a dollar here, just clarifying confusion by confusing, biting the dog whose hair bit us. A braless strap, pure crap and other things as well. I’m Paging Doctor Fuck and prank calling your subconscious hoping for a reaction, that’s some satisfying attraction, retracting lacking love for, yourself.

I realize that some, if not all, of this doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but the idea is to be writing regardless of material. By now you’ve gathered that it is not all gold, closer to lead shavings more than anything, but nonetheless, still, at least it is an attempt to put thought to page. Yes I dream, as do you, of the day when I can plug a USB cord from my noggin to my computer and record thoughts; I hope there’s an edit button, don’t want you to know exactly how this spoiled brain works. Fuck I don’t even want that much knowledge of myself…in fact I’m now scared a little bit about that sort of technology actually becoming available before I leave this life. Fucking self induced panic about something that doesn’t even exist yet or may never in fact be created, happens all the time, doesn’t it? Sitting at a red light: at first you’re enjoying the music, noticing yourself dragging on a cigarette, then as you change perspective to ash, you see the passengers beside you; ‘they look scary’, you might think. You look away quickly, because you don’t want to be caught leering and accused of being odd or weird or prying; which we all are. ‘Stop being so paranoid of who you are’…that’s how you talk yourself down (stop talking to yourself), but then some memory you’ve suppressed for years works its way in and the anxiety goes deeper; ‘how could I have done that!?’ might follow the thought; you shake your head physically, a feeble attempt to extricate the thought from your head. Looking around you hope no one saw you the way you saw the guy behind you picking his nose, but he knows he doesn’t care if someone did, so why do I? (I know interchanging the “I” and “you” as the subject is a no-no, but it was what I wanted)

See how that worked out? Went from nearly not having any material to streaming a paragraph I could almost tolerate. Satisfaction is accumulating in my head and shrinking my worries just like chemo would cancer (I'm my own cancer's chemo; that's a tad fucked-up). Both aren’t good for you, but one is better than the other, I think or not, I should stop now before I’m even more behind; that sort of behind you get when you actually think you’re ahead. Even if I am behind now at least I know my place to be tangibly accurate instead of disillusioned and sad. I’m stopping now, I promise. Quitting this still would be nice, but I won’t, for you, but don’t tell anyone…I won’t either.

-xkp