"This city of stone and stridor is not a sentinent perpetuation of Old New York...it is in fact quite dead, its sprawling body imperfectly embalmed and infested with queer animate things which have nothing to do with it as it was in life." --H.P. Lovecraft, "He"
May 26, 2004
2004
Peter Kriss' brother and all his friends are hanging outside of my window right now, having a few drinks. It's nice and cool out, but there's a thickness in the air that promises rain. I can't hear what they're saying, just a bit of murmer murmer murmer, now and again punctuated by a boyish BOOM! or POW! har har! They're sitting where I usually go to have a cigarette, but I don't want to get into any conversations--neither do I want to stand off alone near the gate, pretending to silently enjoy myself. It's late.
Just got back from a little drinking session at Bohemian Beer Hall (no "the," as the E. Europeans are a bit weird about articles) with a group of presumable or established writer types--Sam, John, John, Alex, Tom, Whatshisname--all admirable drinking buddies who've invited me to play touch football with them sometime. From this, I found out that Adrianna bought the farm, so to speak, on the Sopranos, which I don't see anymore because Laura has the Direct TV cable thingy. Hi, Laura. Real bummer to have missed that magic moment. Talk of how we all love Darryl Hannah (So hot! Star of Splash! Major contributor to the Poetry Society of America!). I also found out that there are a group of Nazis who inhabit the beer hall from time to time, and sometimes break into song. Everyone wants to fight them in a teenage sort of way.
My Ipod broke down today. Now it's just a tiny hunk of metal and plastic that never gets warm. Sort of an emotional experience, but not as crushing as I thought it'd be. It was had cheap, after all, and music is music.
Chait/Day calls: can you come in on Friday? Yes! Yes, I say!
Something like 100 to 200 people look at this blog every day. Who are you? What are your stories? How can you even stand mine when you've got your own? What about you--Disaster, my Double, my Dolorious--ma soeur, mon semblable? Are you reading this now?
Fernando Pessoa said: "There was no literature in Portugal, so I found it necessary to create one," and then he piled voices on top of one another--Ricardo Reis, Alvaro de Campos, etc.-- to fill this role. So what if he was alone, channeling visions only he understood? It was still a noble thing to do, to lie and invent a literature out of frustration with the sluggishness of his country. Well, here I say: there is no literature to describe unrequited love in 21st century America. Every other little mournful, lustful burp is gratified with a liberating orgy. Every love is disappointendly requited and used up within a week. Yes? Am I wrong? AM I THE ONLY PERSON IN AMERICA NOT RELIEVED BY CONSTANT NARCOTIC FUCKING? Okay, so I've lost you--you've all had your one night stands, your substantial disappointments, your liberating divorces. But what about insubstantiality? What about my thing? Why do I have to be alone with this belief in a fiction as old as human history?
Love is not real. So what, lacking the fiction, is the real thing we're all dying for? What is the opposite of all this boredom and war and rejection?
The Criscoula clan just vamoosed. It's raining hard now. Guess I'll go out and have a cigarette.
11:54 PM
Greg Purcell | noslander2006@yahoo.com
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