ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kerouac is possibly misspelled Incandescent light and insignificant thoughts were raining down on me last night. I fought with smoke and humility and worthlessness as the day wound down to what we call "the night". I'd dreamed of something better, of Jason Alexander and Morgan Fairchild exchanging witty pillow dialogue. Of my face on the screen and no one watching. Thanksgiving wasn't nearly as terrible as I'd imagined it would be, which is a relief. I've thought and thought, careening through the nether-regions of this skull, of something to pass the time that is both light on the pocketbook and soul. I've been writing in a flurry; insipid lines that make little sense to those outside of my head. "I will incessantly search for them: the Elusive Xenophobic Fuckers; those who consistently impede the trek of progress and invariably without revealing themselves or even making their presence known." I've been working on the Seinfeld script, which is healthy; giving my pen a target to channel towards. I finished The Vampire Lestat, the first and probably last Anne Rice novel I've read. I enjoyed it, and her writing style, but I don't really care much for vampire tales. I also finished my first Elmore Leonard novel, Maximum Bob. The ending was rushed and was concluded so swiftly and smoothly that it made me think of a drawstring purse. The antagonist is shot and on the very next page the text stops. His body is hardly cold and the book is over. I need to go and wish the Whistler happy birthday with the rest of the people who, by marriage and just bad luck, I'm supposed to call "family". They're not bad people; it's just that they're not my family. I had a family. And because it got twisted and distorted and torn and morphed into something that I can't embrace, I don't invest care in others who want to enter that circle. I just can't go through that again, and I won't. Listen to me: I'm going off again. Someday I'll be so righteous that I won't be able to talk to myself and then I'll die of misery. Piousness is a curse that I'm thankfully not afflicted by. I like my dirt and my sin and my humanity. I wouldn't trade it for anything. 4:59 p.m. - 2002-12-01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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