Mammon

All his children are dead. Murdered as far away from him as possible. In their death I have answered back ‘you are my creator but I am your master.’ Bluster. I overheard him tell his wife, he is a romantic, she nodded in sad agreement. They are both born in Africa. Brutal intellect. Intense. Causing me a bit of self-loathing and excitement. They taught well. A pinprick in my dream. Foolishly bragging about my pleasure in nightmares. It isn’t bluster, sure, but I have my doubts. I am disconnected. And embarrassed. I feel everyone until it paralyzes me. I listen, lost in the revery of their existence. I am fascinated by how rich the human experience is, and the depth of it’s evil. I keep hearing evil is quantifiable and I know it is political. I have a little in me, it is called lying. No matter how hard I try, I surrender. I know the truth. I couldn’t be told it. The thing intruded upon me. That and age. But I still don’t believe but by surrendering to it. I am afraid.

Spirochaete is sparse, remote, devoid of reference points (they’re always there), absent of symbol, at the edge of meaning. I don’t even want to interpret it. I know what will happen when I eagerly beg for the cask of amontillado. It happens and I might feel something. I want to be honest. Except I’m cheating by not keeping silent. Tell the story, the one all about life. Is something wrong about the grotesque? Is it as honest as beauty? Person A said it is art. Useless and priceless. A makes things ugly. Only the intimate know for sure. How cozy to make things cryptic like some gossip. I get under my own skin. Sometimes when I’m ashamed I hide inside others. I slow down to have a look around since it can be so fucking boring knowing I am dead. Pretend you are doing one thing only, such as eating or sleeping then forget you are pretending. I crave the distraction from death. I’m angry with my own failure.

I want to horde everything and let it disappear with me. Collapsing. The word indulge is enslaved by guilt. To know is to know death is here and death is everyday and ordinary. Does that set me free? Sometimes love does stink of fear. Paranoia is inverted love. Lucky me I am a man and my stench. It is hard to be civilized by being a man.

Something dishonest about the grace that I am nostalgic for. Hunting obsfucation and disinformation. The trick is to be silent in the head. What can I say about this rush ahead and disconnect?

I am hanging out with a bunch of booze hounds, trying to keep up with the drinking. It’s Friday night, they’ve got religious imperatives to avoid beer and liquor for passover. Some of them are stoned. They’re drinking wine. Nothing worse than blowing out your third eye on a Friday night. I’d rather save it all for Saturday night fever, since Sunday is a day of rest. I hate writing about this drinking crap. Ron Livingston introduced himself to me. The guy was in Band of Brothers, Office Space. He was cordial and polite. Only afterward did I realize how irritating of me to talk about work with the guy when all he wanted to do was have a good time with his friends.

Leave people alone.

If you have personality you are automatically sexy.

Where there is god there is always trouble.

Anti-species we are on the road to annihilation, as soon as privacy disappears we will disappear. We’ll be in cans trying to get to some other planet. But it won’t be all good will - only the powerful survive. The most powerful will be re-united with the god. The lone sperm entering the egg. The mother is bearer of god. I am the alpha and omega. Listening to the interminable hum of the pool filter, birds, buzz. You can have this experience but you cannot remember it. The feeling will elude me. Focus on the moment. All this self-defiance. Aliens hovering over our shoulders. Can you eat anything? The illusion. We don’t have to eat everything. Our intelligence is in our choices.

The solitude is all he has. For him love functions best at the threshold of solitude. I can venture off and find my way back.