I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what this blog is or what it’s for. I don’t know why I keep it. It’s like the legal pad on my desk that I don’t throw away because it still has a few blank sheets of paper on it, and I might need to....write something down. Writing things down is dumb. They’re just gonna mean something different the next time you read them.
Like I’ve got this list of writing ideas that I keep, and this one thing I have in there is “God is a woman who masturbates.” I read that the other day and had not the slightest idea what I was thinking when I wrote that down. I remembered it eventually, and liked it all over again, so I guess that’s good.
I don’t want to write anymore. By which I mean, all I want to do is write. You wouldn’t know it by the unupdated state of this blogosaur, would you? All my writing energy lately has gone into thoughts of werewolves. And how people cope when shit all goes to shit. And hip-hop. And how the world can be all but unrecognizable after just a dozen or so years of being its ever-changing self. The 90’s. The 60’s. Tehran. Protests. Guilt. Knowlege of self. What feeds into all of our choices, stupid and otherwise. Forgiveness. Your memory will trick you. Don’t trust it.
I’m in a mood. I’m stressed about Christmas. People complain too much.
I found Ashley at the top of the stairs the other night, down on her knees, holding her head and crying. In the split second before I asked her what was wrong, a million scenarios went through my head to explain the sight before me. It turns out that Simon had headbutted her extraordinarily hard with the back of his skull. He’s had no training, he’s just nuts. She’s okay now, I think.
I come to a library at my lunch time to write. I used to sometimes go to Starbuck’s because it’s close to my office, but I hated having to pay for a drink just to hang out and not have free internet, so I come here, to the library, where I am now. I was writing this rap song the other day and got all self-conscious that some old person was reading over my shoulder, which of course they weren’t because old people can’t see. So I make an effort to occupy a spot where people can’t easily get behind me. I don’t know that I’ve generated anything I would want on a stage yet. So much has changed since 2004. I tend to like the people at the library better than the ones at Starbuck’s. Which is to say, my silent subconscious judgements of them are not as harsh.
I was writing at Genuine Joe’s a while back, sitting outside before it got all crazy cold, and some guy was gunning his stupid motorcycle, and I wanted to beat him with a bat. The kind used for baseball. How many cracks does it take to get to the human head center of a motorcycle helmet?
Maybe I shouldn’t put that on the internet. Fuck it, nobody reads this shit.
My youngest child is nuts. Out of his mind cavedog crazy. I realized recently that I spend so much time just trying to keep him from destroying himself and everything around him that I end up paying less attention to my eldest, who is usually not destroying anything. It’s like the Prodigal Son, right? He goes off on a bender while his brother stays and acts like the good son. But which one is bitter at the end of it?
Let’s wrap this mess up with a grainy nighttime camera-phone picture: