writer's constipation. it's a mother fucker.

what is it that appeals to the masses? I have this itching, scratching, crawling sensation that I have no idea. what I do know is that I am hopelessly stringent in combating this horde at every turn. this lifestyle, could it be unhealthy? fatally detrimental even? I'd say it's a bet to hang your hat on. which reminds me, I passed and carried one of the many against me on my brain this afternoon, one that days before begged me for the details of the watt's riot, preached the benefits of equality ... and I can't remember his argument, what it was he said to negate it all, nor can I remember his name. to my credit, there must be some redeeming prospect for only retaining the postive aspects of the conversation, but today I caught the same man talking blindly to himself and this causes me to wonder ... was I even there from before? am I necessary to this great menagerie? do I stand a chance against all those human yesterdays or do I simply feel that I have had enough? to be honest, I can no longer even draw inspiration from the insane. and that is saying something. the truly mad, they have always been my bread and butter and what I owe to them is my greatest success. although, seeing as I have had none, perhaps it is time to change the nature of this relationship.

for now, since I am agonizingly blocked up, mind fucked, and retarded, and lazy, here is a note, slightly modified, that I sent off to little annie oakley up there in sommerset .. the explanation is at the bottom.

I've got problems; writer's block mostly, or at least that has been the umbrella term I have been using as of late. this summer heat is unbelievable. and not because it is physically uncomfortable as I have found my body to be easily adaptable and already acclimatized ... but to speak of the mind and its creativity, new orleans in july has been unforgiving. it absolutely retards any mental capacity for art and so I just sit here, vainly attempting to find the proper state of mind to take advantage of this condition, and truth be told, failing miserably at the task. what little thought and inspiration I find falters and evaporates as would a mirage, qualities, if I may say, are now manifesting in my own physical presence and movement; something akin to the feral cats of the neighborhood ... believe me it is frustrating like all hell, curious, but ultimately disagreeable. and so these days I survive alone, mostly on beethoven and tuna fish. it is nothing new, this peasants life, nor is it all that unpalatable as there is a solitary humbleness in it that appeals to me greatly. but god damn't, what's the point if the driving purpose fails and you simply find yourself dumbed down and alive eating nothing but canned fish? I promise your motivation will stray quickly towards betrayal, vaporize and become part of the humidity that threatens to choke you ... there was something else that I wanted to say, but I've forgotten it now, though it doesn't matter. like I said before, there is no real purpose for this, just something to pass the time.

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before I go I would like to pass one last thought. if there is one thing to be said about my current predicament it is that the blacks have become their blackest, the whites whiter than the whitest of them all ... it is the Life in High Contrast and I have never experienced anything quite like it. also, you people are ridiculous and I don't understand how you survive. it is absolutely fucking remarkable.