Monday, April 10, 2006


to julian sawyer [adams hall, october 1931]
that of which you have a conception, exists.
there is no good and evil (absolutely) but expansion and contraction fo life. it is evil since it is a contraction to stop thinking, to murder, to read the saturday evning post.
to eat when it is time to think is to live less: a contraction.
to think, to see, to make is to live more: an expansion.
the holiest act is to create, to bring more things into existence.
the justification of destroying is future recreation.
to see a thing is to possess it.
the artist gives his possessions new existences with words, colors, tones, shapes. but first he must see. in our time every writer, save one, is deficient in that he does not see to completely possess, or does not translate, give a new, greater existence to his possesions , so that nothing more need be done for them, so that their existence is fixed and eternal.

and do you want gossip?
ee cummings is left-handed.
lindbergh was dischraged from wisconsin.
hg wells says wisconsin has a 'great institution of learning.'
ia richards was here last summer, and nearly drowned.
ts eliot was a banker.
no more now, julian.



this is from a classmate's story:
'i know, but i'm not there now.'
'you say that like you wish you were.'
'maybe i do.'
'like i'm any better than you are.'
'you at least still have something to look forward to.'
'what, the possibility that you might touch me again? why does me needing you bother you so much? why does needing anything bother you? what are you...,' and then it hit me very quietly. 'you're jealous.'
he kind of sat back down on the couch at this point in resignation. 'of course i'm jealous. i'd give anything to be back where you are. where at least one thing could make it all okay for just a little while.'
'you've been trying to take this away from me.'
'no that's not true.'
'how could you do that?'
'i just wanted to be close to it again.'
'what? pathetic desperation?'
'that burning for something. a possibility for relief. i'm so sorry nora.'


unless you're a recovering addict, its impossible to know the hell of the addict. and even as an addict, i don't understand addiction, so anything that happens without reason, every compulsion, devastates me, if only for a week or three. there isn't any relief. each addiction is the largest crater on the smallest moon, empty and black and cheesy. looking up at the sky is the same kind of haunting every night.
i know what the writer means by 'possibility of relief.' i've got 40 odd hours i don't know what to do with anymore. fighting addiction is voluntary losing a job. at the end its feeding on the depletion. you've heard it all before. its the same story.

Saturday, April 08, 2006


it just looked pretty.


there aren't many other conditions that allow for so many contradictions. so i write.