thought I might delete this blog. I dunno what the point is. guess I'll hold off (for now) cz I'm too icky to decide things and besides here I am bla bla'ing away. at nothing/nobody, like graffiti on the walls of confinement. like, what?, is the next prisoner going to find solace in the trace? days scratched off? messages of longing and survival whatever? I dunno. so anyway, M at work is a "textual scholar", meaning she studies what you write before and during the time you're writing something, and now that we all just delete as we go instead of crossing stuff out and leaving a trace, it's all f'd up cz it's as if we just barf up finished products but those products are kinda like dying gasps as much as the upshot. like your death isn't the PRODUCT of your life, right? it's all that breathing beforehand that's the meat of existence, not the end. so I decided to print out Wantdog before I ax'd her, expecting it to take 15 minutes. it took half the afternoon and nearly 4 reams of paper. I think of myself as someone who was maybe going to become a writer but who didn't. that's true, and it isn't. (someone to write at has/d value.) ---
spring breakup - it's not me, it's you
the little willies - it's not you, it's me