Friday, February 18, 2011


Driving in the poorest neighborhoods in Miami with Adam during the hottest part of day, he tried to get me to talk about why I was feeling so fucking bad, and I couldn't open my mouth and he was getting frustrated, almost angry, he told me to say the alphabet and I did, singing it, but I still couldn't tell him anything worthwhile.

So I can recite the 26 letters, tell you what year it is, drive a car, (even though I almost hit a man on a bicycle yesterday, didn't see him until he was in front of me,) wash dishes, (even though I dread meeting other boarders in the kitchen and prefer to wash my dishes late at night or across the hall in the bathtub.)

My whole life seems like a mistake, and the only way to see it differently is to be able to get some words on a page. It's difficult to get started doing this if I don't feel like everything I write will make people like me, I think that must be a newly-revealed trait. I want these people to like me without knowing me, just by a feeling they had from a few meetings, a conversation, letters, wondering about me-----AND JESUS GOD IN HEAVEN THIS IS HOKUM

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