Almost

August 5, 2017

The rain is almost
falling
like snow.

Some three a.m. car passes.

The corner utility pole
holds a cone of light
to its mouth

and is screaming
at the pavement.

We are almost here
suffering,
almost drifting through

the world without purpose

as the rain vanishes
in the darkness
beyond.

Carl Adamschick

It was while writing a Diary that I discovered how to capture the living moments. Keeping a Diary all my life helped me to discover some basic elements essential to the vitality of writing…

Of these the most important is naturalness and spontaneity. These elements sprung, I observed, from my freedom of selection: in the Diary I only wrote of what interested me genuinely, what I felt most strongly at the moment, and I found this fervour, this enthusiasm produced a vividness which often withered in the formal work. Improvisation, free association, obedience to mood, impulse, bought forth countless images, portraits, descriptions, impressionistic sketches, symphonic experiments, from which I could dip at any time for material…

The Diary, creating a vast tapestry, a web, exposing constantly the relation between past and present, weaving meticulously the invisible interaction, noting the repetitions of themes, developed in the sense of the totality of personality, this tale without beginning or end which encloses all things, and relates all things, as a strong antidote to the unrelatedness, incoherence and disintegration of the modern man. I could follow the inevitable pattern and obtain a large, panoramic view of character.

Anaïs Nin
On Writing

preventative masturbation

August 5, 2017

“Along with heavy drinking, I do preventative masturbation four or five times a day so that I can go out in public.”

This all sounded oddly familiar. Then I reassured myself: I might have shared some of his symptoms, but that can be said for most psychiatric illnesses.

“Why do you think this has happened to you?” I asked. “Maybe you should see Oliver Sacks. It could be neurological. Like the man who thought his wife was a cocktail waitress.”

“I don’t get any sex. That’s my problem. I’m thirty-one; I haven’t had sex in nine years.”

What could I say to comfort him? Nine years was a terribly long time. One hardly goes nine years without doing most things, except maybe trips to the Far East…

Jonathan Ames
Wake Up Sir

5th August

Being a writer does not make you more interesting or wiser than others. It doesn’t even make you more eloquent. No, the interesting thing is where a writer puts his or her soul on display for all to see – which is a rare virtue indeed now days, because writers, like everyone else, tend to practice a fake honesty. So much so, honesty has almost become an extinct value in art as in life. We exist in a world of skepticism where people live to consume – wealth is the gauge for all human actions, success or failure is dictated by the cash generated, the profit made. And while we consume, we in turn are consumed by doubt. There is little place left for honesty –

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Should we float now, half in dream, from this house, my prison? Drift through the misty morning over the moor as far as the river? The river curves sleek as a snake. Looking back we will glimpse the roofs of the village, the cottages huddled together in claustrophobic patterns. Here at night no light can penetrate the dark. Here sin and excess live in silent secrecy –