one hundred seventy two

I feel like i’m dreaming all day, drifting, and the beginning of yesterday and the end of today are all jostled together, and i can’t remember anything that’s happened, and am barely cognizant of what is.

I need to sleep more, methinks.

Anycase, been reading The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño, which is a work of pure shining genius. On its surface, it’s a story about a nonexistant art movement in Mexico City during the seventies and about its two leaders. Beyond that, it’s a story of incredible madness, of every art movement, of inexhaustible desperation, of the transience and endless fallacies of love. I’ve been reading a lot of heavyweight novelists lately, and this, i think, is my favorite of the summer, though we’re only a month in.

I’ve been feeling inspired lately, but’ve yet to type out any of these people shouting in my ears, dancing through my dreams, and clawing at my insides. It’ll pour out when it’s ready, and, until then, i’ll be shoving as many stories as i can inside, from film to novel to music.

Depression is boring and i’m done talking about the failings of all of this. One day, i’ll phoenix through again.

Poets never die.

one hundred seventy one

You can die of a broken heart. You stop caring. About anything. The life is sucked from you and you bury yourself one fractured minute at a time.

Some have strong hearts. Not me, I’ve a weak heart, i fear. I break easy, born fragile. But i’ve a hard one, like granite, and it’s small, like a garden rather than a field. Keep it safe, keep it close, keep it secret.

I live on will, not heartbeats.

A man with nothing to lose can take anything.

Tears are for people with blurry vision.

one hundred sixty nine

Chicago was stupendous, as was the great friend of friends, Lauren. It’s interesting how much you can miss someone without realising it properly till you see your reflection in their eyes. The next trip is probably New York, because Dan may be heading there soonishly, and i’m ready to tag along.

Keeping my head up, though my mouth’s down. Look up, son, the sun’ll shine in a mile or three.

I have a good life and it’s women who bring it to heaven’s door or bury me in continuous hell.

We’re in hell now, but Lucifer’s kinder than it lets on.

Breathing helps.

one hundred sixty eight

Summer is no good for writing. Spring and especially Fall, those are the times to write. Summer and Winter here are dreadful and nothing will ever be accomplished within their lands. Unfortunately, that’s about nine months of the year that leaves me inactive, but i tend to make up for the loss in the Falls and Springs.

That is to say, i can no longer write. These uninspiring times. These wasteful days.

Chicago for the weekend.

Miss me.

one hundred sixty three

I worked out today.

I’m getting podgy and i don’t like it. There’re a few things i need to be doing, but i keep putting them off, which is the epitome of stupid, but, c’est la vie. I’m an idiot. Nothing new, nothing new.

There’re many depictions of Lucifer and i’ve always been partial to batwings and horns. Not overblown horns, though, and i don’t like redness, but the batwings–which look tres awesome–are a must for me. Though, when writing Satan into things, it’s best to hide the wings and horns or things’re too obvious. Though, really, i write death more than Satan, but i think they’re the same.

The Devil is just an angel who asked for more

I believe i’m misquoting Craig Clevenger there, but i’m sure he’ll forgive. Anyrate, Lucifer isn’t evil. Lucifer, like all of us, is just playing the role he must in foreverternity.

Interestingly, to me anyway, i do believe in the devil. The devil makes sense. Something for us to blame all of our badness upon.

Poor Lucifer.

I guess they’d call this Sympathy for the Devil.