19.Dec.2003
and a partridge in a pear tree
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at a time when everything's regular
I finished my Christmas/musical projects. Now all I have to do is ship them and apply ridiculous quantities of lotion to my dry, wintry hands. I used the spread-sheet off-time of today stretching my lips around honey wheat breads and soups I concocted from milk and spices, something to warm me, despite my vicinity's current lack of snow.
I've been ill for the last seven days and it's not curving my substance intake. It's a recurring mental grappling I don't currently harbor plans to shake, as it simmers on the back-burner. Tight sweaters and early bed-retirings have sufficed.
During a very real dream of making amends with my Canadian ex-boything, whose fictitious heart I sliced victoriously, Jubal called me at two-thirty in the morning to question my perpetual late-night disappearing acts.
I murmured, eloquence be damned, "Motherfucker ..." as I pulled my vibrating cell-phone from beneath my naked body, but immediately, I shimmied into a giddy state of things when I recognized the name on the screen.
We talked of the usual things, which have no subject and no theme every time. He joshed warmly, and it caused me to guffaw mindlessly for the first time in twenty-four hours. I'm trying to finagle the lanky sweet-heat's presence into accompanying me to New York City next Spring, which would please me so greatly, I could crawl back to my cheap hotel room, find a recording studio, score dramatic and intricate foreign films, attend every Oscar party for the next two decades, marry the Thing of my Whimsy, travel the world twice, buy expensive and pointless art, and die in a bloody car-wreck on the Autobahn while mixing my come-back album, thereby its release will be set for the day after my funeral, it would please me that much.
I'm beginning to notice nearly every update has his name in it somewhere, followed by the usual string of affections for him. Ah, Precious. How absurdly infatuated with you I am becoming, almost as much as with chocolate, music, and heroin combined. Et cetera and so forth with the lines surrounding opaque romanticism and the expelling thereof, and something else pleasing and glorifying to all of your senses. In conclusion, understood subjects bent and wrapped about glazy-eyed and thick-flowing arias of comfort and inspiration, and devotion and raspberry teas and shouting lusty proclamations from the boot of cars into the wan and caliginous nights.
Darling, please pass me the syringe and the Milky Ways and the nicotine and the Charlie Parker, for we're making a night of this madness. Or, I'm making a night of this madness, and I'll just simply tell you all about it at some point during its unfolding.
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Mock yourselves. It's entertaining.
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Finding my antsy fingers clicking over all diaries Ottawan and forlorn, it's really come to my attention that everyone north of the Hudson needs a hug, a ginger smack in the mouth, a cigarette, and possibly a hamburger. It's a rally of the borderline personality disorder organization and "I Miss Ellipsis" is its theme song.
Dreamboats, please. You're killing me here. Come over to my place where I'll serve you cocoa and shackle you to my four-poster bed or my fire-place, depending on your wanton proclivities. Some of you I'll make serve me, though. I just want to make this clear.
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All of my recent movie-going encounters have left me weary and forced me to entitle them All of the Insipid Memories of My Short-Lived High School Career I Loathe Volume Sixteen Hundred and Eight.
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Christmas is upon us, and I will finally go shopping on Sunday, where I hope to buy as many presents for my family as possible, wrap them over-night, and store them beneath my Christmas tree. I will then ingest many a substance and smile.
Despite the medical and familial activity transpiring in my universe, I'm still a reclusive individual. I look forward to treading upstairs to my bedroom, divesting myself of my loose apparel, and drifting off to my favorite plane of existence, where I sincerely hope I'll be bothered by welcoming cell-calls.
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I am reading over the hand-written journal entries, and, this one from the twenty-first of December, 2002, begs to be published. It has pushed me to put together a small volume I've endearingly titled Lover, Faded. Of course I ask of your interest; of course, upon publication, it will be locked. Of course it's sexual. You've been warned.
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time & machine