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Wednesday, October 18th, 2006
12:10 pm

she(1) does not have a sense of humour. too serious.

she(2) does not have a sense of humour. too naive.

she(1) loves him because of his power potential. she wants him to be her figurehead. why does she need him? machiavellian - get others to do your dirty work.

she(2) loves him because...? he has "accepted" her? not slow, just too trusting? won over by his words - living vicariously through him?

is he aware that he is being used? yes. he goes along with it.

I am not in this. if I were, I would want to be (1) but would be closer to (2). (1) is too cunning, too malicious, too beautiful. the tension should be there, though - between the wanting and the being. the sympathies.

((how much can be read into this? the beautiful are ugly, or beauty is evil. but again, no meanings, no real "commentary" on anything.))

((not all beauty is evil, anyway. most isn't. chipped green paint doesn't have a moral status.))

((the joke that the inside is not reflected on the outside.))

is he too inner, or too ambivalent?

remember, too, that he is a professor. and she(1) his student. all before the beginning.

how much does she know? compared to what she thinks she knows? how much is conceived by power of suggestion? or wanting to keep the attention of a pretty lady?

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11:45 am

too ambitious?

considering all as an homage - and ironic after the move to france. or maybe not. depends on how one reads the motives.

about LOVE. beneath it all - MY love. all to indulge my love. how else to express it but to re-personify him? how else to prove my love is true than to create a bastardization of him?

isn't this what we all strive to do? bring things down to our own level?

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11:32 am

is he a good poet, or merely a political poet?

funny if he wasn't even a political poet? - "fools assign meaning to help them prove that they're right."

why do it then? for kicks? is that a reason? a bitter man needs amusement somehow.

or maybe under the guise of being political? cut phrases from newspaper. all a big joke.

(("Take a newspaper. Take a pair of scissors. Choose an article as long as you are planning to make your poem. Cut out the article. Then cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them in a bag. Shake it gently. Then take out the scraps one after the other in the order in which they left the bag. Copy conscientiously. The poem will be like you. And here you are a writer, infinitely original and endowed with a sensibility that is charming though beyond the understanding of the vulgar."))

black, black joke.

risk your life for a joke?

what other way to live? risk your life for seriousness? is he then bitter or too aware? possibly mad?

city of sorrow.

and then when he comes to the head - would he allow this to happen? still a joke? changes everything. he doesn't know anything about such positions; viewed as a "political commentary" (?)

NOT ABOUT POLITICS. NOT ABOUT POLITICS but about LOVE. people who cannot love because they are too inside themselves. his bemusement with himself.

also, love of power.

power and meaninglessness and love.

also about meaninglessness. love and meaninglessness. what else is there in life? dour, but funny! a funny piece.

black, black funny.

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11:05 am

it cannot be straight. nor can it be factual. to have enough incongruities to show this is not based on anything. to say something has to have meaning, or to apply meaning to something that has none - what's the point? things can be. things are. not necessarily absurdist but then not necessarily fiction either. my thoughts are incongruous as well. what better mindset for such an endeavour?

a gimmick, but what if the writing is not the writing but the writing of the writing? what if this is the writing? perhaps the better path since it creates distance. no fear in ruining what you have not created.

is it better to be a beckett or a steinbeck?

but is doing something one way because you fear you wouldn't be able to do it the other way the best way to go about a task? which is better - getting it done, or getting it done right? what if there is no right?

do both?

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Monday, October 16th, 2006
8:35 pm

kitchen:

- he at the table reading newspaper (?) grading papers (?) doesn't look up. asks for coffee. no coffee.

- she in from the rain. soggy boots. "don't warp the floor." retrieves rag, wipes.

- he, here, callous. "love is gone" - ever there? yes, once, as whatever love is. lust? if so, base? unless, he too, once was softer. saw her potential. idealistic?

- she, here, piteous. sad little creature. soft and soggy. dark hair. not unlearned, not unintelligent, simply forced into a different role - domestication. secret light hidden behind desire to please.

- no money.

- should she find a job? where? how?

- "we need coffee."

- "I'll go tomorrow." (for job or coffee?)

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6:28 pm

we hang in these desperate times and all I can think, her lips are too red to be pure.




- perhaps as an epigraph? how else to keep it in first when narration is omniscient? certainly not as an excerpt - not that audacious or arrogant. (confident.)

- or, duh, as dialogue. for which, though, he'll need a cohort. a wrench, indeed. had not thought of friends or platonic relationships.

- he could just speak it to himself. internal monologue, thus negating the need for a friend. most likely. no place for friends in love.

- no place for friends or kindness or altruism.

- (manipulation and selfishness.)

- does love even exist or is it merely a power-play? love of power?

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4:02 pm

tristan samuel noel isaac levi lucien xavier vasily avery guisseppe victor sorel hugo guillaume eli

elise elsa giulietta isadora claire myla bernadette sophia simone marisol magda emelia helene fiona madeleine

eva hannah ada odessa esme lisette brigid lydia lilya isobel anais isolde drella nadia sabine

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Sunday, October 15th, 2006
9:47 am

should the explanation come at the beginning, a lens through which to read; or at the end, a rosetta stone that once turned offers clarity? either may be superfluous. do I need to be dirty to take a bath? do I need to be clean to get dirty? when deep enough, water is no longer water.

there has been more than one He. several, in fact. the one did not know he was a He, which - though charming - ultimately led to his dismissal. another was the propagator. perhaps I should mention him first; like a minor god, however, I view him with reverence and repulsion and I don't hold him higher for his act of creation. being his progeny is no source of pride, but I cannot feel shame, either. would I have preferred the alternate life? I see how others maunder through their lives with their simple joys, their sex tapes and fast cars and I say no. no, I would not want to be like them. this is my hair-shirt; I am willing to bleed, to take the scourge myself. trained so well. the extent of my malice - I have surpassed the master.

but back to the predicament of placement, the problem being, I suppose, my general distrust of linear time. to accept causality is to be short-sighted. is it a fact that this caused that? he threw the glass against the cabinet and because of that it shattered? this cup was broken long before it got tossed.

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Tuesday, February 1st, 2005
12:06 pm

red:

the heaviness of waiting.

the naivete of my hope.

the cruelty of what must be done.

the silence that comes with knowing it's over.

the end.

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12:02 pm

it's been days. certainly it has been minutes. five minutes, five days, five months, five years.

I was born on a monday, I will die on a monday.

"monday's child is fair of face."

I'm cold. I'm a alone.

You've left as you said you would.

I miss you.

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11:51 am

if

I

keep

my

self

to

my

self.

if

I

close

my

eyes.

if

I

take

the

truth

for

what

it

is.

if

I

can

count

to

nine

and

then

stop.

if

I

can

forget.

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11:45 am

red:

the loneliness.

the last good-bye.

the realization that you were right.

the words I spit, volatile and ugly.

the death mask I see in the mirror.

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11:33 am

you are such a god-damned liar. you've never been a doctor. you've never even been in a hospital. you're not even real. do whatever you want with your tapes. I don't care. go run to your little world where letters run away and silence smells like lilacs and everything turns into mirrors and ever star is a death-wish. go. I'm sick of it. I don't want to be a part of it. I'm done. I'm through with this.

you are you.
you are not me.
I am not you.
you are you and I don't want any part of you.

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10:33 am

I lunge for the tape recorder. Stop, eject. I grab the cassette and pull madly at the oily black ribbon.

What do you think you're doing? Stop ruining that!

What do you think you are doing? You're going to ruin me!

You're trying to erase me!

Do you want to be locked up? Is that what you want? That's what will happen if anyone hears these tapes. God, how many are there? Do you know what happens when they lock you up? Nothing to eat but individually wrapped slices of bread and tiny, foil-wrapped pads of butter. You won't be allowed to use a pen or go to the bathroom by yourself. they'll watch your every move. mark down every bite of food you take. they'll wake you up every three hours to make you swallow more pills. little white and yellow and blue pills in tiny plastic cups that they throw away after a single use. If you sleep too much, they'll keep you longer. If you pace around the dining hall, they'll keep you longer. if you talk too much, or not enough. if you tell the truth, or if you lie. if you breathe, they'll keep you longer. is that what you want? if so, I'll stop. I'll leave the rest of the tapes intact. you can make copies, give them out as gifts on Christmas.

You are being melodramatic.

Am I?

You can't be serious.

I think I would know better than you. I've done it to other people. I've signed those papers, filled out those prescriptions. I know what happens. Trust me, you don' want to go through it.

Maybe it would help.

It doesn't. It never helps. Trust me. Trust yourself.

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10:23 am

I hear the voice on the tape. I hear the words, "this is not fiction."

It's my voice but I don't recall ever saying any of this. I don't recall ever recording myself.

where did you get these tapes?

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10:17 am

you laugh because you don't believe that this happened to you. you laugh because you think I am being ridiculous.

stop laughing. this really happened. to you. I have the recordings. would you like me to play them back for you?

Let me rewind.

Here we go. From the beginning.

"this is not fiction. this is not a lie. this is not purple prose."

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9:59 am

of course I need you back. of course I want you back.

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Friday, January 28th, 2005
9:02 pm

I had grown to welcome the void that you had left in your place. In the cold blue of morning I could walk through that azure air, breathe it in, appreciate the flavour of the overwhelming cerulean. I could forget about your thin, but ruddy face. I enjoyed the thought of being filled by nothing but ether, each aerial element - carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen - floating and filling one pink lung and then the other.

did you think to break for a minute and wonder if maybe I didn't want you - or need you - back?

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8:49 pm

I woke up screaming.

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2:38 am

Dear -,

I have been thinking about it and have realized that you have run out on me for my own good. your truancy now my addiction, not death. I am now fully aware of the intendment of your ploy.

I could thank you. Maybe one day I will. But not now.

I feel tricked. I am angry.

I did not implore to be protected or defended. I never begged for a thing.

-eane--ey

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