In the spirit of posting not-high, depressed journal writings (9/20/05)
Editor's notes are in brackets.
Dollar for a pear and a nectarine (though I'm still hungry) man it's a muggy one. Tried to sleep in BPL cafe, man told me can't put my legs on table, and oh, no sleeping either - left in a hupuff, and saided Fuck You down the hall after him. Proved my cowardice when he shuffled after me and asked if I'd said something. No.
Found a carrell anyway with no smoot guards, and what a chance, books of Kerouac and Chinese painting on the table! Said a prayer for someone who maybe idolizes him too much, hoping that he might not try too hard to be the next one. Overwhelming worry hit momentarily "Am I headed in the right direction?" and so sweeps the easy way out (law school, first class trains, corner office) to carry back the sultry recluse. Buddhism will make me one day, but I ain't ready yet.
Nausea struck too when I listened to my parents on the way in here and I realized that they're just people and me too. Just people. And other families have their opinion of us and they all think they're the center but I think I know better! I don't think I could ever keep a journal the likes of Emerson or Kerouac. Reading it would make me tremble.
New states of mind always bring fear and nostalgia for the past states of mind as Not Me! creeps in and gnaws on newfound freedom. I want the old me! and a pit in my stomach every time I see my old room.
Amanda [Parker of Rye, not Earl of Pencilvania] was right about libraries. They're impossible. Too many books. And if I see that guy on my way out maybe I'll say sorry and my cowardice will just become good temperament.
[I did not see him on the way out and my cowardice remained cowardice.]
Dollar for a pear and a nectarine (though I'm still hungry) man it's a muggy one. Tried to sleep in BPL cafe, man told me can't put my legs on table, and oh, no sleeping either - left in a hupuff, and saided Fuck You down the hall after him. Proved my cowardice when he shuffled after me and asked if I'd said something. No.
Found a carrell anyway with no smoot guards, and what a chance, books of Kerouac and Chinese painting on the table! Said a prayer for someone who maybe idolizes him too much, hoping that he might not try too hard to be the next one. Overwhelming worry hit momentarily "Am I headed in the right direction?" and so sweeps the easy way out (law school, first class trains, corner office) to carry back the sultry recluse. Buddhism will make me one day, but I ain't ready yet.
Nausea struck too when I listened to my parents on the way in here and I realized that they're just people and me too. Just people. And other families have their opinion of us and they all think they're the center but I think I know better! I don't think I could ever keep a journal the likes of Emerson or Kerouac. Reading it would make me tremble.
New states of mind always bring fear and nostalgia for the past states of mind as Not Me! creeps in and gnaws on newfound freedom. I want the old me! and a pit in my stomach every time I see my old room.
Amanda [Parker of Rye, not Earl of Pencilvania] was right about libraries. They're impossible. Too many books. And if I see that guy on my way out maybe I'll say sorry and my cowardice will just become good temperament.
[I did not see him on the way out and my cowardice remained cowardice.]
posted by Tongue-tied Lightning at 8:29 AM
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