Hard to get the voice that I want out of my head. So much distraction and so many sounds. I’ve built up this wall of projects for myself. I’ve isolated myself from the rest of the world. My mind is a sea and the sky is filled with the blood sun. The technological world is filled with so much work. The global world is cheap, and we want it all to be cheap. We want cheap labor and fast labor and cheap art and fast art. We want the world to blow us away and make us feel special, higher than the Aztecs, higher than the romans, higher than the moon people, well that is, if there are any moon people.
I get mean sometimes and say mean things sometimes. I walk into places and I scan for the wolfs. Once I spot them I sit in the furthest corner of the room, so their eyes can’t find me. I drink slowly than faster and faster, I watch the sheep and the wolfs. The lights are dim. Sometimes I laugh, so that I don’t seem as if im a seer. But ah yes, I’m a spy. And whom I spying for? For the story, and what is the story, its my life and the way the world lives, the way society is, the way my generation is, the way I am. This is not high-class, this is ginger snap dreams of keeping up with the jonzes. I point the finger when people cry about sports and do cocaine on bathroom toilets. I point the finger and don’t worry I don’t tell. I just hold the mirror when I get mean, and yes, I do admit, that sometimes society pisses me off, and then I point the finger like any good and pissed off reporter and writer and seer of society would. I get pissed and then I see. When I get mad I remember everything.
And the night fall it’s so crazy tonight. Nothing is worse than when you want to write and somebody walks and starts clapping and saying hey hey. It’s not their fault, but nobody understands the writer at all.
That’s settled. I’m drinking.