journal piece 2000

Stream-along-consciousness hour. A table and some paper and a pen. Pretty cool. And the Resident Evil. No keyboard. No slumping over. No icons. No email. Let’s check again— nope— let’s be sure, still nothing. Email. Worthless correspondence and an emotionally detached kind of form. A greeting. An invitation. An M-Peg file. A file teaching to be funnier than before— forward it on to someone else to judge. Slaves to computers. I sit and try to remember moments before my introduction into Avi and Mp3 files and email and programs and internet and games. I bought this computer to write my book. I do everything else but that on this computer. Funny. Email? Nope. Nothing. No new messages. Just dead cyberspace where messages are not sent. Delete. Abort. Phew….

Fall, beautiful chilly fall with some scattered Indian summer days slipping into the moment. My new writing seat, the dark meat, the pumpkin heat— generalizations, images and thoughts are freed up from deep beneath the eye.  No monitors. No look-ups. No surfing the files on my hard drive. The porch. The oak trees that stand naked and empty. A strong wind entangles the branches. It’s not about what you write sometimes, it’s just that you do. Like taking pictures, not every photograph is a success— 20 of 24 will be garbage but it’s the act that gets you where you want to be, that makes you better like polished marble. Like polished marble of great canyons in Death Valley or the quarries right here in western Mass.

I don’t know. It slips away, especially when I’m unaware of it. Be aware and use it to my advantage. Old lessons relearned in moments of realization. 1994 through present, 2000. Whew. What a jump. Six years. I could write a book about my life from those years but what’s the point other than nostalgia? I already have a book I’m writing, in the early makings, in mind, in cyberspace— I don’t even know how to approach that monster now though I still think it’s a good story and worth developing, worth being told to an audience of strangers— 1994, only yesterday it seems and I was living the party of my life. But parties end. The lights come on and I have to finish my drink, finish that last game of pool. And I leave. And now I don’t know what I’ll do the next day.

Next night:

Ahh, the open page. A two month old kitten shoots around the room like a pinball, deflecting in all directions… tired tonight… fighting sleep for a little peaceful Jim Beam buzz— listening to tunes and writing, just like the old days. Saw Bonescrew tonight, a good show— a little off in places but it was their first public appearance… let it be… I’m really tired and sapped of any emotional strength and physical too… but to pursue a buzz, the pursuit that I love. Why? I don’t know… relief, that’s it. Zorro is winding down now and getting sleepy. I just put him in bed with Robin…

You know, email has killed mail. I don’t write letters anymore. I used to write them all the time. I still have two friends who live far away— Anna and Jamie. I email Anna now. Jamie’s physical address changes fast and he doesn’t have a computer to email. I’m still faster at hand writing than I am typing… maybe letter today… children verbalizing, quite simple and quite amazing--

ah, yes… a little free form. Impossible to do on a computer… is there a way to escape the computer? Have weened it down quite a bit but I’m still slave to videos, music and email. Maybe get a second desk for the writing room. No more CD’s, just video— but not all at once, make a video when it’s time, write. Do you remember what it’s like to come home, looking forward to sitting down to write? No? Right, I don’t.