(opening remarks) First things first, there is an intrinsic weakness, I don’t need the talent of art or the instinctive snout of the media for that to be any more clear. Productivity is the result of a long con, routine and quiet. I haven’t been a steady or a good person. I didn’t have the character to break even, so I let others pull out the meaning for me. But my skin started breaking out, something to cover over and hide, to let me know beforehand that I didn’t have the character to tell the truth. 22 years I looked at the world passing from a second floor window, and mulled over what I was proud of and if there was anyone proud for me. I think at this point there is supposed to be some sort of haunt in the past, what you were makes you the person you are today, and so on. But I didn’t make myself a person until relatively recently. [In abstract] Departures left me fuller than ever. I don’t want you to treat anyone else like they’re living and breathing. Look me in the eye and tell me straight what it is you’re planning. Because I spend all of my time thinking about a point where you stood and touched and weighed in on once on tiptoe, stock still while I stared you down to precision. I’ve got the contours all drawn and measured out. I’ve got you drawn and quartered and can picture you perfectly, precise, motionless, in abstract. I should be paid more dearly for holding these fragments with such honor. Trust me. I don’t know if you have a great understanding of the weight of boredom, when boredom is poisoned with thought. Add some color to this and it’d be salmon and maroon, but primarily pale. (excerpts from children) “Please come to table, my dear guests.” I don’t bite, I’ll fall into the trap of domestic comfort. “I thought about how everyone was doing something interesting except me, but still I couldn’t come up with anything.” “[Dostoevsky] astounded me, and mama would say at dinner that I acted as if I’d be - scalded.” (a poem [I]) My past and body were patchwork Holes covered up But the stench (/stitch) Despite the sleight of hand which constituted this or that phrase Or the beam of a well-timed smile The role to repel The role to invite a common disgust which acts uncommon That fine dress becomes me (further remarks) Apathy opens up a gulf, it requires false strength to close that gulf - its even more of a trick to bridge the gap with another. The confident signature stroke can come in handy here. I’m a confirmed bachelor, I suppose. You see, I don’t want anyone to speak with me if we aren’t in the same category. And this falls under the category of speculation*. I’m undergoing an ambitious enterprise called “contact”, and I’m afraid I may be giving too much away, in terms all too vague. *Speculate: What form would be pulled from my own depths of conscious life? Yanked through my throat and brought to bare on a bared teeth smile? I just need to live full and well enough To have one single individual spat out Full and well I think, I think that, what I want For this to be clear Is this clear Remember, I’ve got your features lodged in still motion The dawn of moving pictures Rather you walk with what I dressed you in In rebellion of it I’m just a little frightened to leave the house at night And go looking for clarity in a crowd Does that make sense? Is that alright? Will you wait up? (a poem [II]) All of this feverish activity of creation Its play-acting It seems obvious, doesn’t it, but I really want to stress Its all made up And I feel so ashamed of myself And this repetition I always say that How many times will it take For indifferent fascination to stick (last of the remarks) Wait, there’s a common paranormal concern - classic over the shoulder, turn around, stare them down - a common paranormal concern for a thread that connects the sick and beating heart of a single living being, and those who they care for, those who care for them. This concern is, in its destructive result, shattering my fantasies, will put it under the name of The Curse I’m roped into this Tricked into the fantasy of the real And play my role That I’m oh so defeated and lonely And baffled by the response of the outside feasible world Point being I’m lying, and lying down Because otherwise wouldn’t be able to stand still on these two lege for two minutes The stooped form was indicative of it There’s nothing to hide because the depth is false I’m just speaking in offshoots, in misdirection And I’m often confused (short story) [chapter 1] Everything I wanted was composed note by note, by rote, into a closely guarded routine, for a time a let in a few to look back through but not anymore. Oh, but here is a scene, this is real, this happened - Sitting by myself at a bar, I have to make room for a couple, I was sitting in an area that could usually hold 4-6. Anyhow, I’m anxious because I have to get to sleep early, so I’m not drinking. I’m a little too nervous to speak to the people about to play music, even though I know them - one of them comes over to chat with me, its a little awkward but nice enough, I don’t have the courage to tell him that I’ll be gone before he plays. Anyway, in the midst of this I jot the following in my iPhone, which I never never home without - (a poem [III]) A common lock When I get discouraged But its hard to figure out Whether it was the egg first It hatched an idea That played bait for sympathy The opposite silent attraction To pull in Was the only thing I was good at Turns out a lie That I had any desire To be Attached I’d go falsely quiet Thats the trick Because, you see I told you first I told you I’d do so I gave hard voice To a soft heart Unused to hammering away Mark said it as J. Drummer Already Andy, you know these things Get on top of them Before they’ve hounded you I’ll say it instead of do it Get ahead of things Before they’ve hounded you Cowered you [Explanatory fragment to the above In a stream of notes there should be one or two worthwhile thoughts. The rest is added on for body, something to stand behind. Keep an eye towards posture is the main thing. No one cares otherwise.] [chapter 2] And as I sat in melodramatic despair, the net’s cruel silence staring back from my palm, listening and watching the movements of the general heartbeat, I realized I was sick of everyone being miserable. And if I wanted to really be an original I’d smile and be kind and happy, and enjoy the accomplishments of others before my own, I’d swallow their poison. And in this vein, I hastily composed the following tractate: “Why I Don’t Want To Be An Artist” A - Mostly idling and quiet B - I wouldn’t have ever been touched by the ghosts I was hounded with, if I didn’t hate the living (edit: I don’t know the living, so you see how this hate rebounds back onto yourself) C - Let’s make a trade, don’t go out, if I get spirit from it D - Ah, if only I didn’t have this all figured out E - There is nothing interesting here, in anything I can possibly create, how can I explain that as not a matter for subjectivity, but one of necessity, one of correct category. F - Art can only be awful, I see this now. I get tired This is an exile that suits me Take this line and cut it out, steal my collected trinkets, date it AR 2019, no caps I’m a modern individual Never cursed I can write a poem about heartbreak I’ve got the house and the work to prove it (closing remarks) In theory loneliness is a great aesthetic, it’s fine dress suits you. All sharp lines and intrigue. In reality “lonely is an eyesore” (K. Hersh), it’s sluggish and boring, it’s quiet and forgotten, soft slow curves. Real life isn’t filmed, it isn’t written about, right, that’s the catch. Isn’t it just wonderful that everyone is being so goddamn polite? I’m so gladded you’re all such good friends. (a poem [III]) The near and farsightedness* Ghost of myself in the corner, “You’re too clever for them now” Don’t tell me that, don’t you know I won’t create anymore I don’t want to be a bachelor anymore Play me a song, something I don’t know Something that can move me * those I’m close to get blown up too big and blurred, like looking through a microscope, every gesture is gigantic and a blurred movement of one pixel; those I’ve kept distance from I’m too ashamed to be honest, too fearful to offend. Does that make sense?