newest /
older / diaryland AUTHOR /
/ contact / face
also read: [email protected] / sorethroat
PURCHASE THE DIGITAL COLLECTION (2013)
|
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
HOME 2004-11-17
Patrick Henry B. 5.29.1736 Hanover County, Virginia / D. 6.6.1799 Red Hill Plantation, Virginia Cancer It occurs to me that my daily intention to write an obituary that night might be causing me to have a morbid personality disorder. By day I sit and work and try to take a walk and all the time I brood about death. How to choose? Really, how to choose with so many deaths starred in red on my list of deaths to do? And unfortunately it�s not like you ever run up against a shortage of brand-new material making more or less reasonable demands for precedence. Almost by definition, the labor I�ve chosen is way, way behind schedule, even if I did it every day; and with this morbid personality disorder it�s given me, I�m lucky to top out at once a week. How to choose? What is it anyway with this sorry crop of human beings, these present generations? Starting with mine! So weak, so self-indulged, grasping and frail do I feel myself as representative by contrast with Balzac, for instance, or Proust. How to choose? I mean I�m not well, so I watch television. I don�t have cable, so I watch some network shows, all of which seem to have the same morbid personality disorder I do. Whenever they want to be something they throw in a death, and the rest of the time they�re just trivial. Sometimes they have to be big shots and kill off a regular� How to choose? �which even though you know it�s either drugs on the set or a bigger contract elsewhere, can make you cry. That�s an hour. 60 sweet morbid minutes, like a six-tray of oven-bake sweet rolls, with icing: like I in my personality�s disordered state could resist getting sticky. How to choose? Plus my chronic morbid disappointment over what I did the night before has its dampening effect upon a none-too-robust creative flame. Darkness falls and the gaslight comes up, but so dimly. I make notes and false starts. I make mistakes and catch myself in lies that eat up time. I weave fogs. I braid notebook pages into fetters that trail me into bed unless I clip them like so.
Consolation Site: Or And
: back : / : forth :
|