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The sermon for Jul. 01, 2003 is: ah, crap. 1:11 a.m. Crap. Crap. Crap a fucking doodle doo. Crap de ch�ne, crappaccino, crap suzette. Okay, hello dear Diary: like the 1980s, like Arnold Schwarzeneger's republican Terminator, like Burt Bacharach, like Douglas MacArthur's 1951 hard-on, like a priest's libidinal control, like gonorrhea, Star Trek, Saddam Hussein, sciatica, ex-lovers and the Angel of Death vacationing in Syracuse-- like all these things in my litany of things thought gone and beyond the gravitational pull of mundane earth and the fickle sparks of life thereupon, I'm back, hullo. Ashamed of myself, humbled by my own lack of humility, despairing of my desparation, I've undone all the things I thought would keep me from unspilling myself --- like, I fixed my computer, I started taking my meds, I did this and that, instead of going through with my original plan of destroying myself and all traces of myself -- and la, I arrive back here, oy vey's mir, back where I had started oh so many fucking diary entries ago, when I had first decided to catalogue my disreapir and dismay. And all to remark on two unremarkable things that a less stupid boy than me would very well just not yammer on about, but oh I so want to tell you: vancookie, I love you too and right now on TV, I swear, Conan O'Brien and Patrick Stewart are on the verge of tongue-kissing. Patrick Stewart just cringingly tried to dissipate the thick cloud of homofabian-socialism* that is nuzzling their big Irish heads by whinging, "We go where no man has gone before!!" Their expressions bely their halting words: many men have come there, honey, and gone. Factual trivia and technical trivia now follow. Life: remarkably lifelike these days. Death: suddenly not so interested in me, though not unattracted nor unattractive. Selected for target study group for experimental medication that, at least as of yesterday, has done beautiful things for my bloodstream. Now if it can clear up my skin and prevent my getting pregnant, we'd be three for three! Sex: hovering irritating almost constantly. Strange how many people are actually turned on by pornography --- like seastreet commented somewhere, masturbating to pornography must be what Jesus Christ felt giving up, you know, being God to become human and crucifyable -- it's the closest analagous experience between those two extremes of erotic and metempsychotic: that feeling of utter condescending pity, combined with a supercilious resignation, martyrdom, and rapidly accelerating hammer strokes. Anyway, that's how I feel masturbating, or at least that's how I get off when pornography is put on the suttee by otherwise normal people: by wondering What Would Jesus Do? Crap: I have lost 35 lbs. The lesions are icky. June: Last weekend, Larsen and Ed got married; the weekend before that, Glenn and Wendy. After a year of sincere apologies for not inviting me to their ceremonies, reserved as they were for family and friends, they abruptly emailed me invitations to their weddings. I went to Glenn and Wendy's wedding. The only relevant thing to note here is that the person whom I had the longest conversation with -- this wedding which nominally was a reunion of a circle of friends who hadn't seen one another for almost a decade -- was with a boy named Geoffrey who, when I last saw him, was a slender, beautiful boy with a shy smile and fugitive manner; he had gained schizophrenia in the intervening years, as well as 320 lbs; he seemed still shy and furtive, your typical gentle, genteel lunatic fat boy, until one asked him what he had been up to, whereupon he would tell you about his seven volume science fiction allegorical prose poem, a redaction of Maimonides, Boethus, the Beatles and Lord Dunsany refracted through Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. I had the longest conversation with him: and moreover I actually hogged all the talking: the bright, pretty blue insanity flickering in his eyes lured my stunted conversations I had had only with myself out of me: he told me about his Allegory, and I told him about this thought I had had whilst driving up the 1100 miles in my rented car about the correspondences betweeen gematria and special relativity, whether Einstein's grand unified theory was in some subconscious way a search for the shekinah, and if it was legitimate to call quantum physics simply the kabbalastic work for tikkun. Oh, that was exhiliratingly lunatic talk. Summary: The most earthshattering thing I have done in my recent life is hook up my television to cable TV. It has not been turned off in three weeks. It's colonised my dreams, it's videodromed my soul. And I wonder why I ever bothered rebelling against it in favour of some dull elitist fuck-you antiproleteriat twap like Poetry. All the world is on television, not on paper. And yeehaw, Carson Daly is on now, so I'll check yiz out laterz, haterz--- long live the new flesh *jesus christ, I don't even think James Joyce would get my stupid puns! "homofabiansocialism"--- oh my god, that's brilliant. ** editorial note to myself: I love all the use of boldface and capital letters. I've always wondered what it would be like to go crazy; I just knew that when it happened, I would have to use a lot of boldface and capital letters. *** Last note, I swear. *** Today is Clara's 25th birthday: feliz navidad, amor. My mother has given me another plane ticket to Buenos Aires, the only hitch that it can't be used until October: "so Jonny," my mother said, a smile in her voice, "live until then, okay? And call Clara." I came to this diary actually to look at that picture of Clara I had hidden here, somewhere; and, finding I had fucked this shit, grumbling had to unfuck it, and so here I am again, dear Diary, hullo. Really last note: and I found a bunch of pictures of Stephanie Gyure's rather prety breasts here too. Oh my.
 
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