Distracted? Always.

I’m distracted by every other second. By the way the air sounds and doesn’t sound. The way the light looks and then doesn’t look. I’m distracted by the way I feel and then the way I feel now, and distracted, hell yeah I’m distracted, by everything that I notice, and as the years get longer, as this writing becomes easier, I’m even more distracted and pulled away from my writing and my books, because the poetics of it all is just too much for me to handle, and sometimes I forget this petty technological ability to be able to concentrate and wait and defend the past that sometimes I don’t know why I  even want to categorize, prolonging the memory of what it was. It was only about the here and the here and the words of so many human ideas about everything that distracts me, from everything…

Beautiful. That word again. That damn word again. This is what we wait for, and then, it’s gone.

Beauty runs from us, and so does life. In a day when everybody can take a picture of every damn moment, to be able to really capture something for the public with words is less trivial and more important than it ever has been. It just takes a long time to learn how to see what is right in front of your eyes.  Sometimes you have to become distracted by the beauty of life and age like, wine….

No. There’s even more to life than this. Wine is overrated. Real bourgeoisie nonsense half the time. Ha! Wine…

No. I don’t know how to explain what I’m trying to say yet, and so I start walking and thinking and waiting for, for, for…another pause…

For…my life to catch up to my eyes, to my art, to those intentions I hope I have, and to the whoever the hell, I will be.


Searching. Another word. I feel like I’m searching for something. Always have. I don’t know why. I guess all of us are searching for something in a way. I guess…

Some of us more than others, when it comes to everything, and really, I feel like this search that I’m on is an adventure, but maybe that’s only because I’m full of shit or something and think I’m better than I am, but no!

Self-doubt is given to me by so many other people, by everyone else I meet. I’m sick of them talking and just saying what I’m doing is or is not this or that. I’m bored with the lazy critics of other people who can’t see the profound greatness in the body of work that I haven’t even finished yet…HA!

Self-doubt? Yes. From everyone. To the damned and even more to the savagery of our time I say, fuk off, because SELF DOUBT? WHAT THE HELL IS THE SELF?

I don’t even know what I am. Am I a sophist? No! I’m a human without a philosophical discipline. I only know what is and what is not, and I only know that I like writing and seeing, and wait…

SELF DOUBT…NO! I’m not going to talk down to myself. I’m not going to doubt, well, myself. That wouldn’t make any kind of sense now would it?

and now

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