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ohhh I'm not braggin on myself bay-beeeee Fri|05.10 825 Post 291 Broderick 853 Haight 947 Bush 1870 Sacramento. 221 Main 44 Montgomery 221 Main 2 Embarcadero 333 Market 77 Beale 333 Market 77 Beale 245 Market 2109 Polk 1870 Sacramento. 885-4776. 255-2765. 243-3776. 52. 16. 0. 0. 4. 16. 1. 0. 1802.77. beep beep beep beep yeah Thurs|05.09 Today was sunshiney. Muni was messed up. All the people couldn't fit on the island there were so many people. I took a different bus than usual. Not that I have a usual, not really. I did fuck-all at work. Which was fine with me, I worked wicked hard Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday so. Graffiti on side of building: HEART OVER CAPITAL. Yup. Good luck with that. I don't know why traveling to see my family freaks me out so much. I don't know why. There's no reason. We all get along and I love them, so what's my problem? Why the panic? WHYWHYWHY I remember one time, like, five years ago? I don't know, that sounds about right. I was in NYC visiting a friend and then traveled home via the gin & grapefruit bus and the whole five hours I had trouble not screaming, I was sure I would puke, I just kept shaking and pacing the aisle. I DONT KNOW WHY! It's baffling. It has to do with going home. I think that was the first time I realized it, or it KRYSTALIZED for me or whatever. I don't know why it happens. But between now and Wednesday my panic will be taking me over, right now I can feel it, and I don't know what to do about it because I don't know why it is. HOW WAS THIS FOR A COHERENT ENTRY OKAY NEVER MIND ANY WAY YOU WANT IT THATS THE WAY YOU NEED IT ANY WAY YOU WANT IT Wed|05.08 So tired. So very tired. dont you eyeball me boy Sun|05.05 Was looking for a journal from '89, from my time on Boylston Street, specifically an entry from Patriot's Day, describing Ang and his friend Craig in a drunken mess. I remember it as amusing. Or at least interesting. Can't find it though. Have a vague recollection of them wearing album sleeves over their heads with eyeholes cut out, lounging at Ang's, back from a day of brown-bagged drinking and harrassing women who were trying to watch the Marathon. Harrassing, charming--the line blurs when you're good looking enough. They'd both gotten numbers and were trying to remember the people who belonged to them. Instead I found a journal from '94. I'd forgotten how obsessed I'd been with my psychiatrist. ("He's the Jesus of the psychiatric world." - Yes, I really wrote that.) Words cut out from newspaper or magazine articles that struck me are taped to the back page of the journal. One reads, "Reality, with all its banality, harshness, and sordidness." The other: "A ferocious, repressed atmosphere in which, out of fear and impotence and shame, people become willed strangers to themselves." Then a handwritten quote from Eldridge Cleaver: And why does it make you sad to see how everything hangs by such thin and whimsical threads? Because you're a dreamer, with a tiny spark hidden somewhere inside you which cannot die, which even you cannot kill or quench and which tortures you horribly because all the odds are against its continual burning. In the midst of the foulest decay and putrid savagery, this spark speaks to you of beauty, of human warmth and kindness, of goodness, of greatness, of heroism, of martyrdom, and it speaks to you of love. Back then what is now another Lee's Deli was the M&M Cafe, or Restaurant, a dive with broken-down brown vinyl booths where I'd sit and write in my journal every lunchbreak. This may be the last one I kept with any regularity. Eight years ago, eight. Eight years ago. That's unbelievable to me. OH MAN I'm really self-conscious filling this page. I'm not sure what to say anymore. My writing style is torpid as ever, same sentence structure following same sentence structure. Comma, word with -ing, phrase, period. Dialogue. Compound description. Blah blah blah. On and on. None of it very important or interesting. Written about Dr. V: He's such a fucking shrink. I told him I didn't want to talk and he said I didn't have to, so I said, then what'll we do? Play checkers? And he said, would you like to play checkers? And I think he was being sincere! I grinned and said no. Doesn't he get it? I'm a wiseass! When will he get that? He takes me so seriously. He should know better. He was getting angry at me, maybe just annoyed, and that's fine. I wish he would slap me. Just a little, just slap me into shape. Answer my question! Whack. How do you FEEL about that? Whack. Say more about that! Smack. These are three things that Dr. V says to me: 1. Nothing is etched in stone. I wish I could draw him. I wish I could hit him without actually hurting him. God forbid I think about my problems, the things I was paying him to help me to work on. Nooooo, let's concentrate on the doctor. Let's go to the library and look him up. Let's find out where he lives and who his wife is. Oh well. Eight years ago. aRcHiVeS | hOmE |