In the kitchen, there is a roll of paper towels on a stick, a sheaf of napkins almost spilling out of their celophane packaging, a dirty pizza stone, a platter, another platter, some marshmallows, a rubber chicken, twelve cabinets up high, six cabinets down low, a refrigerator with cut up body parts in it, a stove, an oven, a kele, a dirty fryin’ pan, some fusg, a gourd, another gourd, what the hell are all those bottles of things? Flax seeds. An angel. Two cups. Seasonings. A microwave. A yogurt cup with a spatula sticking out. I give up. Two flies circling the light fixture. They’re walking, not flying. Dumb fucking flies. This is me. I’m stepping in to save this wretched project, but not for the reasons you might think. I’m so horny for human flesh, I’m like to bust a nut. But horniness only really works out good if I have to leave my little world to go get to where the goats are rutting in the tall grass. If my little world becomes indistinguishable from the outside world, which it can do if I don’t take precautions to, you know, actually have and cultivate a little world in the first place, then there’s no catch and release. There’s no give and take. My life is a novel. Fuck the novel. The novel is as dead as the theatre. And that ain’t saying much. No, the point is not the story, the plot, the MC, the FMC, the OC, any of that bullshit the pansies prattle on about. The point is the world that exists only on index cards. The point is the freight train made of only text. You can’t see the point until you zoom in. And you can’t zoom in until you sit here, alone with your own dumb bullshit inside your own dumb, sad zoo of a head, for hours and hours and hours, whenever you get a chance. And you have more chances than you might like to admit. Don’t you? I thought so. So after all these years of looking for little rectangles because I thought I needed to find the index cards, I found them right here. Thank you, gods of November. I found out that I was not looking for a system to replace them. I was not looking for a machine, a truc, a way of being, or any of that stuff. No wait. Maybe I was looking for a way of being. A way of being alone occasionally. And this is it. This has pretty much always been it. If it’s ever something else, that’s fine too. But I know for a fact I can always come here. Until I say that, because saying that is like screwing the lid too tight on the firefly jar. But that’s all right. They’ll come back. They always do. Every year (except for that one year when they didn’t.) God it feels good to be truly desperate again. November 20, 2008 I love her, but I wish she’d hurry up and fucking cheat on me already. Damn. November 22, 2008 I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: yeah, she’s fat, but she’s still fucking hot, and so so so female! I still want to dive in and swim, swim, swim!