30 10 04 and 1-2 11 04 — Moleskine notebook.
30 10 04
Listen to the voices before they come. They will tell you things you’ve never heard before. Like the whisper of children (that is always on) to be had. Or the cries of another woman who hasn’t deserved my mistake. How then should one go through the day if the voices actually speak to the soul? Yes, the counter is that normally the voices only speak to the ear(s). We know that they are only a machine.
01 11 04
Another year less than two months before ending. And I hear the soft currents of the Gulf of Mexico slap the white shelled beach just in front of my villa.
02 11 04
Wrote nothing. Why? Vote.
27 10 04 – Moleskine. Pages slightly burnt, scratched, tilted. (What does that last one mean?)
Even among the most fluid demons that inevitably find me, this far away from reality, I think and dream simultaneously of time. It befronts me most here at the so-called “Almost southern point” as a lollying figure. It could be due to the remnants of something that has left me here or brought me here or it could be something recently awakened by the very recent happenings. No matter. As I will deal with this dilemma as I have all others. Run away from it or delegate it to someone else. Although this time I am finding it hard to take the easy way out. And so I deliberate time. It is just what I need. Not time in the sense we all know though. I recently read of a tribal people who had the same word. The way they would indicate past, present, future was by pointing in a specific direction. My question is, or, my avoiding point is, what if I were to do the same and not point? Yes, your assumption is I live in such a tribal store world. That world or place or community is now.
I said to some woman who is just ahead of me. “Where are you running to?” She didn’t respond. The hot sun was beating down on the back of my neck, the hurl of old timer airplanes roared in the sky and the sour smell of drainage being cleared overwhelmed my senses and I curtailed even further my hope of ever finding a paradise. I know, it’s very naive of me to think I could ever find a paradise on such lost shores but in the midst of my daily reality checks sometimes the pessimism subsides. It is obviously overcome though by and even easier misnomer. I like to call them the runners. In articles or notes I have called them the wounded or the dead (see failed novel Chad). But here, in the sunshine of darkness and illusion, they are the runners. But where do they run? Some have said to win the race. Others know the metaphor. What do you win? They usually illuminate some physical prize and I walk away laughing. For I know it is the run the keeps them alive. Run from here, run from there. Run too. Run hither. If you run forever excepting tokens along the way and never search for wisdom, what is the point? Should there be a point to everything? I want so badly to say yes.
26 10 04 – Moleskine notebook.
Days Pass again. But I have seen another end to pieces I’ve created as though Keylime were the motivating factor. Still, between the tourists like myself I feel no force that joins us unless content is a new force of nature. Can you believe, faithful black book, that I’m in KW. A sudden arrival it has been and when I sat next to another foreigner with a T-shirt saying: I can see dead people, I was propelled to make sure he knew he could see me. But the gist quickly subsided as a catamaran wished by blowing it’s horn and when I looked to it felt sorry for the tourist who paid for the sightseeing and had to raise its mainsail. The first hours in the confused American Caribbean left me with yet another bitter taste. It is the aftermath of a life of consumption that has been forced upon me. Completely stuffed, like a Thanksgiving dinner, the waiting sunset my digestive, I can think of nothing but compulsion as I watch the stingy street artists in their over zealous and lost fixations to be something they are not. I suppose it is all part of the bitterness I feel when I place myself in the holds of America. It is the other, the my, compulsion I cannot avoid. Yet the smarts of Hemingway’s bar or beaches or boats is not enough to fight back what I feel. And feelings are amass in this time and space between Disney reality and American Tom – Tom foolery. So here IM. Lost in the arms of another magnificent love and I can’t figure for the life of me what to do with it.
Just bringing old notebook notations online. This will take a while.
Entry from 20.10.04. Notebook: Moleskine
Yes, it is the wake of the deeds from dark places that I am in and tremble with fear. And I always end the fuck with Y and the big :-)? It is the flight of all flights that I know believe is coming to an end. The flight to be me or someone else. I only regret at the end this war is that I didn’t take more stupidity out with me. I honestly don’t know what happened there. Something obviously did. I suppose there is so much stupidity, thick ominous, made by someone or something to be sweet and juicy. Oh, if there only were a bit more devilish whim. But even he has left us alone. And so. Here I stand or sit, the ground moving below my feet in order to give the muses an impression they are mobilized, and wonder at the body count I’ve left behind. There is also the issue of dark places. A very significant issue sense, ultimately, it is the origin of all human existence. I mean, if there is any attainable perspective here, then it must be obvious why so many of us are afraid of the dark. It is the place we’ve been picked at, one by one, and thrown down a long too. Misnomer of light at the end of the tunnel can be muted here if only everyone were better equipped mentally and not so fixated on mobility. And so, logically, it is no wonder that so many people go through life as though it were meant to be survived and not live. This is part of the war I am ending. Attrition the main course of my joyous ending. If I continue to fight survival will eventually get the upper hand and I’ll join some ranks or level of homeowner, who knows, maybe I’ll even own car. Or all acquiesce. Living with nothing has been a wonderful outlet during war. It is an obvious choice. So I suppose the issue is, is it my choice? I wish there were a precedents I could look too. A case of law maybe where I could find perspective. I’m sure somewhere in the dungeons of libraries there are the writings about a woman’s choice. I mean how has she made them? History has been turned, kneaded and wriggled, with the welcome devilish influence of woman. Yet credit must be given where it’s due. She, woman, has made many more choices than men. There is a resilience there we must not leave to collect dust. But how can the male psyche harness (the same) power? Yes, again, woman is free because of the choices she has made in (our) history. And yet all men do is wage war between survival and living. Oh, how cumbersome the cosmos must see us. I wonder if I’ll miss the trembling. There are some things in life which are free. Fear is certainly one of them. And it is everywhere, like air. But the price paid compared to the commodity received… Oh, the limits of economic formulation.