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January 10, 1997
Writing: 1. The act or art of forming letters and characters on paper, wood, stone, or other material, for the purpose of recording the ideas which characters and words express, or of communicating them to others by visible signs.-- Webster's Dictionary, 1913
So yesterday I waited for the carpet shampooing people to come. They didn't. This is the 3rd time I've been "rescheduled". Why did I want to have the damn carpet cleaned anyway? Well, Wilbur did throw up on it yesterday, and before that some months ago he had a colitis attack, which is described no doubt in one of my July entries but I won't put a link here... And I walk on it with shoes worn working at the cat shelter and guarding plover nests on the beach and treading through goose shit for a good view of hooded mergansers at the cove and traipsing down Beach Road Extension picking up broken glass
once in grammar school i wrote a "theme" about being a pair of carpenter's shoes. I got a B- because it had an unhappy ending. I was a pair of worn out shoes. My mother dug that out of the attic a few years ago , read it, and was amazed at its sheer brilliance and the lack of recognition of same by those darned nuns the ones who still perch on my shoulder and tell me I am a bad girl and going to hell because i have sloppy handwriting and don't button my jacket and talk during lunch and ride my bike to school when everybody knows only boys do that and by the way do i think i am a boy and if so why god help us pray for peace people everywhere because the bomb will fall any minute and our desks won't protect us and where is the damn fallout shelter and how long can we live underground and the nuns are worried about unhappy worn out shoes?
oh lord i'm just a boy whose intentions are good please don't let me be misunderstood
that's what you get for trying to play on the boys' side of the schoolyard 'cause they play ball and flip baseball cards and the girls only want to play jump rope on the planet mars where the women smoke cigars
sacrament: an outward and visible sign of an inward state of grace
but they can forgive all that because i am brilliant and of those to whom much has been given much will be expected and i am shy and bookish and would rather be in the library or in the apple tree listening to baseball on the radio 'cause they play it in the afternoon in the bigs the way it oughta be and i don't know yet that it will become a nocturnal emission commission omission
bless me father for i have sinned in thought word and deed it has been two millennia since my last confession did he who made the lamb make thee? all the ends of the earth have seen the saving power of gd come hell or high water the world will end in fire or ice but probably not in a purple cow
welcome to pleasure island
provincetown either way
east west newton
fig newton
hughie newton
newt gingrich
the grinch
inch by inch step by step slowly i turn .... Niagara falls isn't even the biggest waterfall in the US some one of those torrents at Yosemite is but the one and only time i visited Yosemite there wasn't a drop of water in any waterfall or pool or anything never been back never seen the rain except that since my late 20's every time i go to California it rains it rains big time i went to San Francisco and it rained for 7 days straight they were calling it a miracle this was during the drought not now when all it does in California is rain and here in the past we have only drizzle and gray skies with the promise of snow tomorrow is that a threat or a promise?
the rain the park and other things someone left the cake out in the rain and i don't think that i can take it because it took so long to bake it and i'll never have that recipe again and once i saw a hippie on stanyan street and i laughed even then i knew how quaint how faint the ancient echoes peace love and understanding are impossible but nothing is impossible with god therefore there is no god or if there is she is hiding ....
I got an obscene phone call while I was writing this. Instead of hanging up I just replied "no kidding!" to everything he said. He went on for about 3 minutes and gave up.
Now I can't get back to the spontaneous bop prosody.
Oh god, now the phone is ringing again. It's another voice talking about coming over here to beat my brains in. I had to hang up on that one when putting the screaming godzilla toy next to the phone didn't work.
The phone rang again. I took it off hook and immediately held the screaming godzilla toy next to it. The caller hung up. I hope it wasn't a program call. That would not be of service!
I am not making this up. This is non-fiction. Some guy really is harassing me over the phone using different voices. Now I feel really awful about writing the entries about shit and kitsch. My warped mind tells me that some dude read them and looked up my phone number in an online phone directory. Damn. Now what do I do?