(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?