jakemarley

Im sitting here listening to The Pogues CD I got up in St. Johns, NF. <B>Streams of Whiskey</B> is what its called, and it is recorded live in Switzerland, 91. The sound quality is only marginally above bootleg. Actually, that is unfair the only problem with it is that the volume keeps changing. This is only a problem because it is 3 oclock in the morning and I am working in my office right now, which shares a wall with my neighbors bedroom. They seem like a nice enough couple, but one of them is pregnant. Not that I favor their breeder habits, I still dont want to be particularly obnoxious. She is going to have the thing, obviously, as she looks like shes carrying a small, Eastern-European car in there. So, the differentiated cyst it is now will eventually qualify as a human child, at which time it will become sacred. The couple is quite young, as far as I can tell, so I hope they are willing and ready to make the necessary sacrifices for the child.

I am nicing like mad right now, but I intentionally accidentally lost my last pack of cigarettes Saturday afternoon. I thought of putting the kettle on, but the rest of that bottle of Chianti Ive had sitting in my fridge for like a month is calling me. I figure I can polish that off, then put the kettle on and drink several pots of black tea come morning to make myself sober and ready for a day of web design. It is my last bottle of wine (except for that bottle of 92 Kenwood Artist Series with the Henry Miller painting on the label that theres no way Im drinking). Ill have no beer money for a long time. So I guess if I get desperate, itll be the last of my whiskey in the cupboard. Fuck it! Im gonna drink and be merry, for at least an hour or so.

[Goes to get wine]

OK! I have my wine now, and Im happy. It doesnt tastes too bad considering it was opened over a month ago and has been sitting in a refrigerator ever since. I hate cold Chianti. Some people seem to think chilling makes wine more palatable, but I dont know why. It really gets up my nose when cold, and it has to warm up in my mouth before any flavour is released, but I usually swallow it too fast for that because the initial character of cold wine is something akin to kool-aid and Southern Comfort (and thats another story). Anyway, the wine hasnt lost much from the quality it had when I opened it, which wasnt much.

I have switched gears from The Pogues to the Go-Gos - <B>Return to the Valley of the Go-Gos</B>. They were not such a bad band, as the first CD of this collection attests. They were just one of those early LA punk bands that were completely turned into crap by the recording industry. Perhaps they would have turned out somewhat like X if they hadnt been signed so early and made into MTV superstars. Anyway, I think one short paragraph is about all the commentary they ended up meriting.


My writing hasnt been much to speak of, lately. I had intended to write a great deal on my trip to Newfoundland, but I believe I only got two sessions done. What I wrote in the airport is sitting in my folio next to me, ready to be transcribed, but I am not entirely sure where the other page or so is. I know it was better than anything Ive written since I got back.

The last couple of weeks have been totally unproductive by even my own measures. I have no idea where the time has gone or what I have done with it. I have only recently gotten back into a normal schedule of sleep and frantically puttering about trying to get things into order. My dreams and my fucked up psychological state seem to be the only things of interest about which I have to write. I suppose I still have experiences in the real would worth that might be of some interest, or I could turn this blog into a political commentary, but neither would serve what I believe to be the intention of all diarists to document ones own thought and affect for self-analysis and to allow posterity to gauge the minds of those who preceded them. Perhaps Samuel Pepys had a different purpose, to document the happenings of the world around him, though I really cant say, since I have read only short excerpts for the volumes he wrote. In any case, if it was not before, certainly the greatest contribution of Anais Nin to this world was to make the diary introspective rather than extrospective. Her obsession with Freudian psychobabble does not detract from the value of self-analysis, from the exploration of ones own inner-self.

When I was asked by a therapist to begin keeping a journal, I was not at all interested. At the time, I was all about expressing myself in fiction, and about marking my name in time by finding someone who would publish my work on paper. Given the subject matter of my fiction, and that even the smallest and most extreme magazines refused to print it, the nature of the dissemination of information today makes the success or failure of my older goals pointless. The dark void of cyberspace allows anyone to fill it and anyone to take from it. Marking my name in time, whether I am marking a nom de plume or my real name, means little when technology allows anyone to do so. This is a good thing. Modesty and anonymity make us true siblings of the information revolution.

Furthermore, I think that whatever goal I had in exploring an even darker and more violent world than I myself had lived was what destroyed me. Lightness and peace is enough. If we can ever figure that out, we have done more than infinite life will ever permit. Knowing evil in ourselves is one thing; living evil in our thoughts and actions is Hell.