i have a hard time keeping up a blog. i am not interested in telling people about the mundane things that happen in my life, and i don't think they are interested in them either. i write one or two peoms a week. i am not writing any stories anymore. i will write a novel in about 7-11 years (after i come back from germany, where I plan on going in about 1.5-2 years). and switch gears. until then it's drinking and poetry. and working. and trying to be by myself as much as I can. i don't take too many phone calls anymore. i don't have too many friends, and i want to keep it that way. to be an artist, to truly harness your genius (if you have it...or think you do) is a sad and painful thing. and oh so lonely. and oh so maddening. and I can tell you it has nothing to do with happiness, that's for sure. except when the magic comes, then it's real. and life doesn't seem like such torment. but the magic only comes to go, like everything else in the world. And then you're left living some more. your 3rd rate life. is it worth it? it's probably not, but for me... there's someone out there i'm trying to impress. another me. who probably hasn't even been born yet, but needs me the same way I needed... dostoyevsky, turgenev, e.e. cummings, bukowski, montaigne, schopenhauer, voltaire, jeffers... the ones who put the line down with blood. i am putting my whole life on the line (in unseen ways) for this... the trial muse, and the wine of my incantations. for the next line that may come to me, as i walk out into death any evening. i'm dead serious about this, and it all makes perfect sense to me.
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