NEEDLING

PINK IN THE AFTERNOON

Had a book give away party last night. I cannot take them with me. And it feels good to clean myself of all this weight I carry around. Already I will have minimum three suitcases of various sizes full of things… mostly papers with more things written on them… words are merely objects two dimensional… with me on the plane and probably two or possibly three boxes of books flying towards Texas on a postal plane.

The primary problem is one of laziness as I have not exercised the most important muscle one possesses. The memory. Or the brain. Or that thing we have in our cranium cavity. I am horribly guilty of sloth and drunkenness. If it weren’t for those crimes, I could go everywhere I go with merely the clothes on my back. With possibly only a little rustle sack thrown over my shoulder inside which a couple change of underthings folded next to my toothbrush and some tea bags. I don’t have any bibelots, useless tracasseries, little memories packed inside kitchy objects reflecting moments past and gone… little memories which through my eyes might inhabit those silly useless objects. Our constant need to project on inanimate objects the blurry images of our banal past. Through these objects, often accompanied by packs of cheap photographs, we carry wherever we go the burden of our silly lives. I am even more egocentric than that, doubly guilty of vanity, as I do not carry any of those objects, I carry hundreds of pages of notes that I call “Daynotes” on which I scribble useless daily banalities related mostly in the form of self-deprecation, self-destructive drinking bouts described or lived directly on the page… leading to inevitable melodramatic – and pathetic – scenes of loneliness exteriorized... then relived over and over again…

I carry these with me before anything else as the written proof that I have like most men created absolutely nothing of importance, of value… not even of sentimental value, the cheapest and possibly the lowest form of value.

And… to top it all… I AM IN A GOOD MOOD RIGHT NOW.

Clouds and light rain intermingled with long moments in the sun. I have gone to the movies and saw a first feature-film filled with endless little jewels spread throughout. I cried during a scene when this man sitting in a car was watching a group of his friends eating a picnic in front of the car inside which he was sitting with the filmmaker and one – another one – brings him a slice of rhubarb pie and he eats it while it starts raining and everybody runs to cover. I laughed throughout the film. After the film I ran home to research on the internet for the principal character of this film – the man eating the pie in the car – a poet I have never read or even heard or read his name… a man who is the principal element of this film which starts out as an interview… kindda… a man who is published by several small presses in France. One of these I found is based in Paris and has a bookstore in the seventh. What they have by him is an 800 page epic poem. Tempting...