A Journal of the Vague Year // by Daniel DaFoe

The sermon for Mar. 12, 2003 is: g�tterdammerung

10:23 a.m.

I shall start with a poem, to weed out the poetasters and the weak of heart.

inhindseit
perhaps i should have known. but what of that?
i'm not one to love cautiously. tho' i had thought
myself frivolous, my emotions gossamerly.
my heart a fluttering part of something summerly.
perhaps i should have prepared for naught
but what use, tell me, in anticipating hurt?
better to hurt, and let the bleeding hurt
pour all its sorrow into the astonished wound.
perhaps i should bind the cut. oh what of it,
bleed if you do. bleed if you do not.

If that does not satisfy your appetite for self-pity, dear Diary, stick around, there's more a-comin'. Let me tell you all.

So. Valerie left. Valerie came back. Valerie left again. Valerie came back again. She would be like that cat in that old Anglo-Saxon folk song we all learned in Viking camp, you know, "The Cat Came Back," wherein this cat repeatedly comes back from death and other distant lands to torment her ailuranhedonic owner with her presence (and torment us with infinite iterations of the chorus). Valerie is that cat. My girlfriend is the zombie cute-stinky-kitten from Viking folksong hell.

I don't want to write anymore.

Dear Diary. Valerie and I had been relatively happy for the past week or so with one another. Last night, then, imagine my surprise when this note fell out of her purse:

          Valerie. My throat's still burning *grin*.
          
          I don't want us to end like this.
          
          I need you.

          I'll call you tonight. [name deleted]

This note was from a guy that Valerie brought along with her the first time she Came Back. His name, fortunately for her limited vocabulary during orgasm, happens to be John as well. After disappearing for a week or so, she showed up in my hallway around 11pm; she had seemed surprised to see me. Apparently she had invited this new john back "to her house" for a late dinner; late dinner consisted of my meagre groceries (and she ate the least rotted foodstuffs, of course). Oh what the fuck am I telling you, why the hell am I writing this shit down? Old John and new john eye each other warily across the expanse of suddenly vivacious Valerie. Old John wants to die. Fuck. Fuck.

Skip the prolog, skip the introductory crawl ("EPISODE IV: A NEW HOPE"), just retain the factoid that my girlfriend apparently spends her non-working hours (I hope) schtupping the White Pages; and then coming home to my bed and saying things like, "After today, I realise just how much I love you." "Tonight, for no reason, I decided I like your shy penis; it's so attentive and inoffensive." "I love being your girl, oh yes I do, Jonathan's girl, Jonathan's one and only." Etc. I should've gotten the clue that something was happening by her sudden upswing in rhapsodic elocution.

Anything said rhapsodically is a motherfucking lie.

So last night. Valerie had gone to bed. I had been cleaning the kitchen when I picked up the note. I then hyperventilated for five or six hours. I then got into bed and, in the dark, benefitted with an extrasensory eyesight that is only aroused by pure, undistilled hatred courshing through the veins, I surveyed her calmly slumbering form. Her pale skin was limned with an indigo aura; squinting from specific vantage points, you could imagine her body, her aura, to be the aurora borealis splintering the sky above some remote Alaskan mountain range. Valerie was sleeping in fire, like fucking Brunhilde.

Anything seen during a hallucination is the motherfucking truth.

I awoke her. And I'm stopping here. Stopping. Here.

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.