I'm exhausted. Yesterday was an emotional orgy filled with emo orgasms and weeping. Love is exhausting. I'd forgotten. I had those songs in my ear all day, and they ran through my head the whole sleepless night. I have a chill this morning, aches and pains. It is a cold or flu or Covid, I'm sure. I have the party boy's lament. And still. . . I want more love. Junkie. Tie me off. Shoot me up. It only takes an hour before I get withdrawals. More. Better. Purer. Always afraid the dealer is going to sell to somebody else. What can you do? Be a monk? I've done that, too.
I wish that I was both young and stupid.
Then I, too, could have the fun that you did,
'Til it was time to pony up what you bid.
Maybe, though, it is the coming moon and its eclipse that hector me. The Full Beaver Moon. Seriously?
Or maybe it is the coming hurricane. WTF?
Or maybe it is that the Powerball drawing was delayed.
Or maybe it is today's election.
What a confluence. It is like The Perfect Storm.
The left has done a good job of pissing people off. Identity Politics has been great for them. They need to stick with that until we are a fully fascist state. If they can get Herschel Walker elected, there is nothing they can't do.
I'm really trying.
Maybe it was that I was passed over once again for People Magazines "Sexiest Man" title. Who in the fuck is Chris Evans?
A giant wave has plucked me from the shore and set me adrift at sea.
"I'll protect you," she said. That's all I have right now. My life saver.
Did you know that the poet Hart Crane jumped from a ship just off the coast of my own home state? His father invented Life Saver candy, but he sold it on the cheap before it became popular. It is reported that Crane refused the life saver he was thrown and subsequently drowned.
I want to love you, I want to pass it on. I want to give and give 'til it's all gone. I want to know you.
No sleep, no sense. I haven't any flow or continuity this morning. My mind is herky-jerky.
It turns out that the "R" fellow is serious about buying a print. Maybe more than one. It is a tricky proposition. I put all my prints in storage some time ago. The price of the storage unit just keeps climbing. They sent me a new contract this week. They want $200/month for the 4x10 foot space. I am going to have to give the space up. I was burning prints before I rented the storage unit. I don't know what I'm going to do now. I brought a bunch of big prints home yesterday to show the buyer. I have no place to put them, though, other than my floor. I think they are beautiful. They thrill me. They don't burn quickly. You put one on the fire and watch it buckle then flame. Then you watch it slowly burn for minutes. And then, like everything else. . . it is gone.
The Woke are as scary to Bohemians as were the Nazis. They are unrelentingly righteous. They want to cleanse the world and remake it in their own image. To be inclusive, they must exclude. Are you in. . . or are you out?
Have you ever visited The Neue Galerie in NYC? I can't believe it hasn't been cancelled or burned down. It is one of my favorite places. Lush Bohemian/Jewish Art. How can you go wrong? It is beautifully decadent.
Even when writing doesn't make sense, it is still therapeutic. Keep writing, love. You have a story to tell. You can't tell it in a day or a week or a month. Sometimes it's just gibberish. Like this. I've said it too many times, but what the hell.
"Sometimes you have a perfect story, but most times it's just a bunch of lines."