ell, I’ve got to say that things aren’t really working out. My living arrangements have abruptly become extremely unstable again, and it’s hard to focus. What was supposed to be a single entry on a familiar fake quotation has expanded into a six-part series with no end in sight, and no guarantee than any of it will be posted. (I had set Washington’s birthday as the outside limit for getting it out, and that has now passed.) I’m feeling depressed and discouraged and trapped.
Not that any of this matters—I learned long ago that my internal emotional landscape has virtually nothing to do with the external world. My roommate just asked me what I was doing, and I answered that I’m writing an entry. Why? he says. I reply by reading what I’m writing to him. This is how desperate I am for material. Or attention, my roommate says. Anything is possible, I suppose.
Words continue to fail me, but I keep putting them out. It’s a narrow line, between the hideous monsters on the one side and the clashing rocks on the other. Output versus putting out. That can’t be right. Quality vs. quantity. Yahweh vs. the serpent. Yin vs. yang.
More will probably follow. Or maybe not. If there are no more words, consider this my farewell.