Song of the Free Sector


Knits and weaves and baskets things contain
Interests and intervals and meadeans
And looking past, out, acrash and stuck to refrain
Gone down on a sideways cart eating vegetables

Bag radicals and jumping beans
Carry your slosh slosh dream dream
Caving out on no nothing scenes
Always full up with something

Cacholigious, maxidigious, luck
And mortor, walls constantly beside ye
Warm lip sun have to nod and fuck
Or walk quackly by and not know

Sum of this and this one song
Something about the air and yen
"I think I know" grumbles woman in sarong
Pretty gold sarong, green dingy

Worn by princess in the confusion
Nothing but light from the sewers
No reason to reach any kind of conclusion
And every one thinks they know

No matter what they say
Ignorance paid lip-service in the air Where lips
Are the order of all day
And all night, all night

The bricks are cold and the walls the plaster
Everything is all night
We see people painfully, sharp alabaster
Plants wound our eyes

We see mirrors banefully dropped
Across our lap for pennies
We see the sky in our minds popped
At last, old blackhead

We breathe vomit and we sing sweetly
To ourselves in our boxes
We talk shuddery, shattery, softly
To ourselves

Tell ourselves to slow down
When you squint you can only see the neon
You can feather the dark
Until it's soft enough to sleep on

Going just a little mad and feeling just a little unhealthy in a lot of ways to-day.

I think I should get out of the house before I go to TJ Maxx. I'm so glad I quit that place. Already I can see it's been putting some bad twists on my brain. And some bad uses on my time. If only my last day would come sooner.

I have Monday, Wednesday, and Friday off. One of the things I hated about that place is that I never got two days off in a row. My manager came into the breakroom yesterday to point out to me, proudly, that she'd given me the day off on "July the fourth".

I looked at her, blinking, confused, thinking maybe she was just thinking I'd appreciate finally getting a day other than Monday and Wednesday off. "Oh, okay," I said. Then a moment later I realised. "Oh! Fourth of July . . . well, er, thanks . . ."

She couldn't have given it to a less deserving bloke.

...

Last week at this time I was doing so much better. I was getting so much more done. I need to stop thinking about what I don't and can't have and I need to start losing myself in my art.

Well, I'm more or less back from the land of sickness. Feelin' pretty shitty and stuff though. Been mostly sleeping and stuf past couple of days. Haven't done any work until the new page of Doll Merchant I finished a few minutes ago.

Uck. I feel bitter. I think I'll write a poem too:

The tree wants
To kill everybody
But he can't 'cause he's
Stuck in the ground

Looking through the eye
Of a squirrel far off
Tree sees he
and all other trees are meat trees

Bleedin', quivering, meat things
Dancing naked veins
Want to get involved
With the floe and go of things

Tree sees the squirrels and
Beautiful girls are
Only skeletons
The forest all

Is pretty skeletons
And pathetic meats
Tree wants it all to die
And he can pull

His head off
Pull his head off so's he
Can hide it in the
dirt

So's he can finally
Start to
grow
Start to grow.

Well I sure feel like utter, complete, super duper, in black diapers, shit. I'm sick, you see.

Feel oddly cold and . . . oddly sleepy. Have all day. Got worse at work, where I QUIT to-night. Oh yes, I sure did, hehehehe.

I had to . . . through heavy rugs and inhale fabric and dust and I had to run round and round and now I've a full body headache and I don't want to MOVE. I had so many plans for Tuesday . . . I want a hot cocoa. I think I'd settle fot some hot milk but I'm too tired to move. And I'm HUNGRY and I don't know what to eat.

Blaaaaaaaaah. I wish I had R2-D2. I wish SOMEONE would bring me a cocoa.

Actually, maybe a pretty girl instead of R2 . . . I think I may sleep ALL DAY to-morrow. I'd like to . . . But I HAVE to eat, but eat WHAT? Hungry . . . feeling . . . bitter . . . hungry, cold . . . and I want a hot cocoa. No. Wait. The milk's sounding better, damnit I'm gonna try. There's big loaves of bread out there, maybe I can eat one of those.

I want some hot . . . good . . . beverage. ANd a showre. At least to-morrow's not Thursday . . . is it?

I have this strange feeling of defeat. As if some invisible battle angels were fighting on my behalf on Monday had been lost.

I hope I'm just imagining things.

Saw Hulk a few hours ago. Easily the best comic book movie I've ever seen. And for the record, when I saw it, I was wearing purple pants.

More when I wake up.

For some reason, the first thing I did yesterday was to read The Cardboard Box. This, and a phone conversation with Trisa, took up my whole morning before I had to go to that TJ fucking Maxx. At two. No one should have to get up that abismally early.

Haven't gotten any writing done since Saturday night . . . I did finally become a werewolf in Morrowind on Saturday, and I've probably been enjoying that too much.

It's true that my character's actually much weaker as a werewolf--the "bonues" with which the designers have endowed the werewolf form pale in comparison to the modifications I've done to my character (max regular human strength=100. Werewolf strength=150. My character(Grushinka)'s strength, with enchantments=300). But I found that I was fulfilling a lifelong dream--as a kid, I was obsessed with werewolves. And now I've finally experienced the joy of terrorising the townsfolk in the form of a man-like wolf thing during the night, while being hunted and scorned during the day. Oh yeah.

As I awakened to-day, I also identified two of my favourite things; bribes, and clones.

I had a dream that I was browsing at a huge, fashionable clothing store in L.A., only to be accousted by Demi Moore. Apparently she owned the store, and asked me, in the midst of delivering to me streams of jittery, cheerful words, if I would like a job. I said okay.

It was basically straightening clothes, putting them away, helping customers, etc. I had to give special attention to a lot of celebrities, but the only one I seem to remember clearly is Ian McKellen. I gushed to him how much I liked Lord of the Rings and X-Men, and I also told him I'd seen, and especially loved, his Macbeth.

He seemed delighted, and as I helped him out the door, I could tell he felt sorry that he couldn't bring me with him.

...

After TJ Maxx last night, I went to Starbucks and wrote for more than an hour and a half. I put my scribbles on a good, thick segment of papers. Combined with what I did on Thursday, I'm getting an awful lot of work done on part eight. I think I'll play some Morrowind to-day.

I bought a Talking Heads album yesterday. It's pretty good.

I got it at a Wherehouse which, I'd learned from Trisa's journal, was closing down, so everything was on sale. Had a weird moment where I got the distinct impression that the girl behind the counter was furious I was there, and hated my guts. Odd, considering she was a total stranger. It wasn't like she was mean to everyone, either--she was quite courteous to the people in line ahead of me. Must've been my aura. Or maybe she hates The Talking Heads.

Oh. The big news . . . I spent ridiculous amounts of time writing yesterday, working on Part 8. I was so happy about it . . . I think I'll do more to-day.

I also finished reading The Magician's Nephew. I know C.S. Lewis was Christian, and that his work featured a lot of Christian references, but you know, that doesn't bother me. In fact, I think Aslan exemplifies a better deity than Jehovah.

It's strange to read a Narnia book all these years after first reading them as a child. I realised that the sensibilities of the narration had a profound influence on my moral and ethical sensibilities as an adult. Which I felt good about . . .

But I'm still not a Christian, so this just goes to show, I think, that art is rather deeper than religion.

Last night's Farscape took me by surprise by being an homage of Guy Richie's Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. It was fun, even if it made me blush at times. It was certainly more fun than the Rashomon episode.

While eating dinner later in the evening, I listened to Ridley Scott's commentary for Alien. The guy really seems to enjoy doing these commentaries, but, although his genius is evident, he's strangely inarticulate.

He got me thinking about how very dated Alien does not look, which is really quite extraordinary for a science fiction film. I also thought about the fact that, for the most part, Alien is one of those rare movies that take place in an entirely different world, and nearly all of the special effects are utterly convincing. There's nothing that looks fake in it. You couldn't say that about any of the Star Wars movies--including the new ones.

I wanna go back to sleep but I can't because it's Thursday. I have to go.

This made me laugh heartily.

I spent entirely too much money yesterday. Among other things, I purchased my first Cocteau Twins album, Blue Bell Knoll. It's really good, and even better for having songs with titles like "The Itchy Glowbo Blow", "Spooning Good Singing Gum", and "Ella Megalast Burls Forever".

To-day so far I've done a new page of Doll Merchant, and now I have to go. Bye!

Started out the day by watching The Misfits. What an awesome movie. I really like it.

Gods, I wanna just grab Marilyn Monroe and kiss her. Okay, you can all giggle now.

The film's not only Marilyn Monroe's last completed film, but also Clark Gable's. Gable's performance was not nearly as interesting as Monroe's, seeming mostly like a one note, debonair old cowboy--actually, in many ways his performance reminded me a lot of John Huston's (Misfits director) performance in Chinatown. A charming, irascible old guy. Only in Chinatown, Huston's performance of course had a more sinister tone to it than Gable's in Misfits. Gable's strong moment in the movie, for me, was when he was drunk and shouting for his kids who obviously weren't there. I think maybe Huston directed Gable this way on purpose, as at the beginning of the movie, we see Gable as Monroe's character pretty much seems to--someone to be friends with, but not much more. It's in his drunken hollering that we first really see this guy's hurt and vulnerability.

But I wanna talk about Marilyn Monroe. She's so good. She really was capable of conveying a lot with her facial expressions--she was obviously much better at that than anyone else in the movie. And I daresay no one but Marilyn could have played that role, as it requires your eyes to be magnetised to her at all times, wondering at this strangely charismatic, radiant creature and her tragic sensitivity. "Why do your eyes look like you've just been born?" one character asks her at one point, and we the audience have been sort of wondering this all along, especially as this innocence in her eyes seems to co-exist with a darkness that comes with experiencing all kinds of emotions with no protection against them.

Brilliant casting in the movie. Everyone fit their roles like a glove. Even if they hadn't been movie stars, it would have been brilliant casting.

The movie’s story, written by Arthur Miller, was also a brilliant meditation on death and losing people and things we love, or trying, and perhaps failing to cope with their absence or emotional unavailability. Marilyn had a lot of lines I particularly liked, such as one she spoke softly, wonderingly, that was something like, “Maybe we should always just forget the promises people make to us.”

...

Yesterday, I received a rather large package from Cryptess. Among other things, it including some of the best artwork I've ever seen her produce. Really wonderful stuff, and I love that Cryptess girl.

I also went to North County Fair mall yesterday for the first time in a very, very long time. I was happy to see that the place had a comic book store again.

Other than that, yesterday, my first of two days off from work, involved me driving around listening to Aimee Mann, Jesus and Mary Chain, and David Bowie. To-morrow's my only other day off this week, and I intend to get some real stuff done. In fact, I intend to get some real stuff done now. So here I go!

Movement of the Motionless


You're on the record
And you can be heard
Sweet CD perfect sound
And silent

You always run
And you're very fast
But you never move

Drop the cloth, heavy
Remove protection
And sweet Marilyn Monroe
Skin,
Infinite goodness

But the clothes are stuck
From living in the bog
Of four winged
Insects
Indistinct number . . . of wings

Play backwards:
Always try to escape the inevitable
But
Always try to find the inevitable
And sleep in it

Start without trying
Your dream is nothing;
death
And death might be life
If you try for it

Ever slow
Ever fast
You can't take off your clothes
But you can change them.

Yesterday felt like endings and new beginnings. And stuff. Most importantly . . . stuff.

After "work" at TJ Maxx, where I casually informed the manager that I would like to quit, I went to Starbucks and finally continued the actual writing of part eight. Seems to be going well, even though I was working from only a partial outline. I just couldn't wait any longer.

And, folks, it felt good, yes it did, yes it did.

Yesterday also had me driving around listening to very loud music. I pulled out The Crow soundtrack and, later, Morrissey's Your Arsenal.

Now I have to go make the Father's Day rounds before going back to that miserable giant shitbox called TJ Maxx. Au revoir.

The Withered Lover


What sign of the Black Zodiac are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

First of all . . . on Wednesday I wrote an entire short story. I feel very good about it, although I'm not sure how I feel about the story. I read it aloud to Trisa, and she said she loved it. I suppose I should have faith in that. Reading it over again, it looks sort of like I was trying to do an HP Lovecraft meets Weird Science sort of thing. Even though I wasn't.

I wrote the story whilst hanging out at Trisa's Starbucks. I chose to do it instead of working on my novel because there're still a few details I want before proceeding with part eight--and I need to finish the outline.

That same day I did design some uniforms for part eight, so it was a very productive day.

Thursday was not nearly as productive because, ironically, I had to go to work. I did finish reading Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, which was good. The guy obviously loves Dostoevsky, which, if nothing else, is certainly a sign of good character in my book.

Now I'm reading CS Lewis's The Magician's Nephew, a far more profound and interesting work than Tropic of Cancer which, don't get me wrong, was good, but didn't come close to living up to the blurb on the back about it being the greatest novel of the century.

Henry Miller, I think, really ought to have had a go at writing straight philosophy books. That's what Tropic of Cancer really felt like it wanted to be, as its best moments are when, in poetic language, it goes off on a riff about the nature of existence and how a fellow ought to approach it. His soap operatic tales of he, his friends, and a variety of prostitutes, doing things and living places in Paris would be more interesting if he were actually a friend of mine writing to me about his experiences abroad.

As it is, the book reads like a collection of mildly interesting anecdotes interspersed almost totally anachronistically with grandiose speculations about reality.

Which Member of the Endless Are You?

Dream Dead


Almost quietly:
Under floorboards creaking, almost
Killing the grass
Almost the end.

A taste of the sky:
airy, empty
Makes you dry

Remember a glimpse

Remember seeing
Something that wasn't there
Translucency, water colours on wax
fading, melting, intangible
Beautiful

Image stretched already beyond
This thing was meant for no matter
No matter . . .
Hard, choke snot rock cry
Silent, or almost almost silent

Path is dry
Dry dead riverbed
of old

Stones, smoothly, tumble
And clatter resonance
for shredded pink feet

Nobody sun
Sees nothing
And all cameras are
Nowhere

Small, naked, missing
Portions of body mass
No clothing to fill
Cadaverous holes in
Stomach
Ribs

Frail absence, blue white translucent
Skin
Reality of cold like a shadow
In the light
Of no one

Dreams are reality and
Equally lost, spilt between
The rocks
Now is only cold
And light
And stone

Possibly tired but
Forget to sit
Or to sleep
So keep walking

Only
Keep
Walking

The best thing about Tuesday was Monday night.

Monday night put me in a good mood for all of Tuesday. Because on Monday night I hung out with Trisa. It was great seeing her again.

We saw Matrix Reloaded, which was actually not bad. And we ate and talked and it was nice. As others have recently observed, she's a very cool girl.

Oh . . . FUCK.

Awakened a short while ago by a bird screaming outside my window I realised that I had two songs from TJ Maxx stuck in my head. One of them being a Celin Dion.

And I feel terrible.

I wanna die.

I learned something about myself on Sunday:

I don't like cordoroy.

Not that I liked it before, it's just the first time I became conscious of my hatred for it. Because I touched it. I touched it, and it made my fingertips feel like they were gonna shrivel into useless little bags of flesh.

Sunday I also bought the new "Weird Al" Yankovic album and drove around listening to it, giggling. Unfortunately, I missed a page from Trisa, which sucked extremely as I really wanted to hang out with her.