It's like, I don't
know, a while since I wrote last. That's the thing about time—you
can just leave it alone and it'll do its work without you. Very much
unlike people—we can't leave anything alone. I mean,
you can, but it'll go to hell. That's essentially one
definition of hell—that which is neglected. To be a good Christian
it takes constant, never-flagging, unrelenting, narrow-minded,
psychopathic maintenance. The scriptures must be repeated endlessly;
but that goes for anything—any conviction, like “art is good,”
or “I'm a fine person.” Neglect of any convictions, any
information, even—your own history, your past, even—and you'll
lose it. Hell, if you don't keep repeating the most basic things to
yourself—your phone number, your address, even your name and
birthdate—you'll forget it. That's the definition of hell,
maybe—not the creeping sexual and intoxication and forgetting
urges, but the mold growing on even your basic convictions, the
cobwebs around what you've always taken for granted, but what no
longer functions, due to neglect.
I'm at a place
I've never visited before—never saw it until today. Tucked into the
west suburbs on a tiny commercial strip, it's an old bar that serves
food, including Saturday morning breakfast—and a good breakfast,
too. I don't even remember the name—I'll look when I leave and
write it on the top of this entry. A good looking diner is across the
street, but it was cock full of yuppies, so I came over here with the
real people—like this excellent traveling salesman sitting next to
me at the bar drinking a red colored cocktail and eating a bloody
steak.
It's a dark
place—very dark, with red lampshades on the lights over the bar,
and the corners probably obscured. It's not that old, but it's as
good as a place as you'll ever find in the suburbs. Too bad about the
TV and the lottery machines.
It's a good time
to start a completely new start completely new start completely new,
without any reference to the past, 100% uninfluenced by anything that
has come before—a completely severed, sterile, cauterized, lopped
off—sorry! I'm just trying to get some momentum. The reason to have
a fresh start is so you don't have to refer to anything in the
past—because that takes work—so it's easier for me to
write than it is to read and make sense of what I've written. I know
that makes you think—“Well, what about the reader?!” Yeah,
well, it's a good thing this is my super secret private journal, and
not for publication—as if anyone would want to!
Not me—that's
for sure—unless, of course, I found it somewhere—not knowing who
it belonged to—then I might be intrigued. Especially if it
contained “good stuff.” And just what is “good stuff?” Well,
I guess it'd be anything that the person writing the journal would be
mortified to have anyone read—even someone not acquainted. I wonder
why that is? I guess because we're talking about sex—what else?
There's plenty of private stuff—but the fascination of reading
someone's bowel movement diary would wear off pretty rapidly. Oh my,
now that I think of it, isn't that exactly what this is? I've
been calling it The Lobster Bible, but maybe I should change the name
to “The Bowel Movement Diary”—or else start writing some
interesting shit. If I am going to call it anything “bible”
I should at least read over my own scriptures and learn something.
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