The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

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Chain of thought-Chicago.

I'm home. Again.

I can't decide if being bored in Chicago or in beloit is better.

One thing I liked about being in Beloit: easier to remain faithful to my diet. First thing my Dad does for dinner, pizza. Not just any pizza, but infamous Chica...

Bloody hell. I"m not going to sit here and fucking whine about my lack of fucking willpower. You don't want to hear it, and I don't fucking want to hear about it.

I have found a fountain pen store. They sell quills, ink, seals and sealing wax. I nearly knelt down and thanked God for the availability of these items in my home town.

As I was knelling, knowing I was so far from adept at kneeling as I'm neither a Catholic or good a sucking cock (two things you get excellent practice at in the church) I noticed the price tag. Satan of course was truly at fault for my intended genuflection. Vile beast or no, I will not besmirch the sanctity of my bank account for a fountain pen. To be as Faust... selling soul for the pen with with which I sign my soul away. Not when calligraphy quills are only 14 bucks.

I went to Borders today to console myself from a detestable and languished attempt to shop for close. Not only did I venture into and Abercrombie and Fitch, but two, within about a 20 minute time frame. The put that damn moose on everything. Needless to say, I found nothing for which I was looking. I got no love from the up-scale mall.

I hate the word glisten. I was thinking today as I came to my room that I had not written much recently and that I should try my hand at it. First damn thing that popped into my head was "glistening snowlight." The fuck is that crap. What dimension does my cock-and-bull mind run off to and come back with that shit as a good line. The only damn person that can get away with that line is Shakespeare and that's only because his and every other person in 16th century had their cod pieces on too tight.

"We write as we read," I have read, heard, or come across at some point. I'm so sick of Shakespeare. Give me O'hara, Murakami, Buckowski. Some fucking hardcore writers right there. I should be gruffer. Drink more. Womanize. Uh.. in Murakami's case, be Japanese. I read fantasy. I write like I read fantasy. So much is this vitrified fluff (wrap your head around that) is messing with what I want to be as a writer.

I write in a trance. I disappear. My emotion, just a structure evolving in my mind with out my involvement. I have no emotion. I don't put me into what I write. I do not live my writing.

I wonder what Berkeley will be like Thursday.
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