still and type the shit. It’s just that I want what I want, which is
throughout me, not just my brain, and it’s to feel and move
and fuck. I don’t try to resolve it. I figure you have to be
humble before life. Life tells you, you don’t tell it, and you
can’t argue with what w on’t sit still long enough to be argued
with. I have to break loose one w ay or another, drink or fuck,
find some real noise, you know, a fucking stream o f real noise
and messing around to jum p right in; that’s my way. If it’s
tepid I don’t want it and I don’t do it from habit or just because
it’s there to be done, it’s a big change I made in myself, I have
to feel it bad, I don’t do nothing on automatic; people think if
it’s on the bad side it ain’t bourgeois but I don’t; I think if it’s
tepid it don’t matter what it is class-wise or style-wise. I don’t
solve things in m y mind to impose it on reality, because it ain’t
worth much to do so; for instance, to say you don’t want to be
some fucked thing so don’t fuck. Fucking never feels like you
will end up some fucked thing anyway; it pushes you out so
fast and so far it ain’t a matter o f what you think and it’s stupid
to misidentify it, the problem. Y o u ’re some poor, fragile
person in the middle o f an ocean you never seen the whole of;
you don’t know where it starts or where it stops or how deep
down it goes and what you got to do is swim and hope, hope
and swim; you learn everything you know from it, it don’t
learn a fucking thing from you. Y ou can make promises to
yourself in your mind but your mind is so small up against the
world; you got to have some respect for the world; or so I see it
and that’s m y way; but, then, I ain’t holding out for a pension.
I type m y hours, however many I can make it through,
putting as much pressure on m yself as I can stand, which isn’t
making a lot o f progress, and I keep a time sheet, which I make
as honest as possible but it is hard not because I want to lie but
because I ju st fucking cannot keep track, I can’t pay enough
attention to it to keep track, so I just approximate sort o f
combining what I need with what seems plausible and I come
up with something. I cannot write every fucking thing down
to keep track o f m y time as i f I’m some asshole and I find it
profoundly unbearable to do robot stuff. Sometimes I w ork
for a writer, a poet, and I deliver packages, which at least
means I go on subways and taxis and see places, and I file
papers aw ay alphabetically and I type, except she says you
have to put a space before the colon and a space after it, one
space after it instead o f just no space before it and two spaces
after it as every typist does. In theory I am for defying
convention but typing is something you do automatic like
yo u ’re the machine, not it, and you learn to put two spaces
after the colon and none before it and your hands do that and
your brain ain’t fast enough to stop them and I spend half my
