Drenched in Words
I see my father there, across the way, surveying. Beginning like me in the world, setting out, tentative and unsure but enjoying the spring air. And I am myself, sitting with a notebook. Mainly there is the day for both of us–what we do in our free time, and ideas of love. Her temporary smile–the black Southern waitress, big, with big breasts, and this ice-cream which I can’t consume, a prostitute on main street going up to 2 different guys in an hour–the prostitute I once served in Marois–who red-haired & big-breasted turned me on & angered her John. A great letter from Dave, and a bunch of records from the public library.
Did I really hear 3 explosions and murmuring voices out the window last night? What could I do - my mind awake - my body sleeping - not knowing the difference twixt the real and the fantastic.– –To be informed by many rhythms, styles, to be drenched in words - requires an abundance of courteous reading, the installation of courteous words.– –Let’s be good readers always!–
I look forward to the day when I will write my own essays, and not only read, and I would like to read Nietzsche’s secret notes of doubt, as this certainly is, not knowing for sure if I will succeed. I want all art, and I see all art, as at my disposal — This is what I am accomplishing, and it will make me a great writer.–
[05 Sep 91 Thu 15:47: this last paragraph may belong to 05 Apr 86 Sat when the first paragraph was transcribed]