A Journal of the Vague Year // by Daniel DaFoe

The sermon for Saturday, Mar. 09, 2002 is: This way for the gas, ladies and gentlemen

9:29 p.m.

Diary Dear, I feel like shit.

{Pause for 3 minutes and stare blankly at the screen.}

Actually I think I do shit a disservice in putting myself in shit's company � shit, after all, is a proleteriat, doing everyday work quietly and efficiently, with no regard nor no pride in its effect or consequence, whereas I just blather incessantly about my sad stupid self and whine and whinge and hope as a result that someone will pity me. How fucking bourgeois, how Madame Bovary� I aspire to the dignity of shit.

{Pause for 3 minutes in examination of mood, which now cannot be called "shitty," even though its provenance seems demondedemerde.}

My last babbling entry was for Princess, after a night when we seem to have mistaken one another for lovers. Immediately after we left one another's company we knew that we had been duped by some mistaken identity, and so, inevitably, unremarkably, we stopped talking to one another. It's so strange that those whom we love so fanatically are condemned to be deleted so fanatically, as if our hearts' censors were trained by the Orwell's Ministry of Information. It's very difficult living in the same world with someone whom you've unwittingly allowed access into the dungeons of your heart without searing their lips and eyes shut--- this reminds me of something Judith once said, she said, "It would just be easier for everyone concerned if, after a break-up, you just die."

This reminds me of one of Samuel Beckett's poems, I think it's from "Pomes Pennyeach":*

I would like my love to die and the rain to be falling on the graveyard And on me walking on the streets Mourning the first and the last to love me.

Okay, that wasn't from "Pomes Pennyeach," which I guess was by Joyce at any rate, but rather from "Quatre po�mes." You really can be a pedantic ass sometimes, Diary, did you know that?

At any rate, carried away with the sound and the fury, this idiot has forgotten why he was so melancholy in the first place. There's something just in writing, you know, in just undoing the knot of voices caught in your throat and letting the torrent pour out. Thank you, Diary, for sponging up my confidences.

It's strange-- writing about Princess, and Kristin, and Judith, et al, that whole crowd of the disappeared whom I had more or less deliberately expelled out the airlock of my spaceship into the infinitely dark and forgiving night -- writing of them recovers them, for a moment, to my affections; and I forget that I'm alone, and lonely. Will this suffice, Diary? You know I no longer have the strength nor, in my drug-damaged evolution, do I have the charm, wit or money anymore to lure people into some seduction of friendship. Will this suffice, Diary? Usually when I'm this emotional I try to score, in order to kill any hint of reconciliation, of recovery. Is this wise, Diary? I just think it better if I kill myself now, soon, immediately, while those whom I love and adore and therefore run away from still believe me to be the sage, dry-witted encyclotron -- like the young Kierkegaard -- instead of the bitter, self-amused, endlessly pontificating endlessly writing bitch I've become -- like the old Kierkegaard. Okay John, shut up now.

Be well, Diary.

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.