coming home

2005-01-23T17:09:00.000-09:00

2004-08-09T19:20:00.000-08:00

White Guilt It is sunny. The outfit is congregated in a circle of plastic chairs with our toes in the sand. They are all squinting. I am squinting. This is unusual; it’s rainy season still. The farmers are begging for more rain. This is the locker room. The pre-game huddle. The pep talk before our

2004-07-14T23:44:00.000-08:00

I’ll tell you the truth, it’s really July 15 Or The only decent thing I’ve written in months I’ll give away the end right now. You could wait for it, but I don’t have the patience and you don’t have the time. Nobody should have the time to sit and read a blog. I’m not a fucking storyteller, anyway. I’m not an author, a writer, a narrator, a wordsmith, or even especially interested in

2004-07-12T23:07:00.000-08:00

Part 1: A letter from Murphy Henry, This is my first night in Bongor, and now that we’re far away enough I finally am itching for a good talk. Home sick, I guess. Will you let me be serious for a second? I know just how much everybody hates for a person to go and be serious, as though you would have to be a wholly un charming brute to ever be serious. Look, I’m not hitting the mark. I’m not

2004-07-10T22:20:00.000-08:00

Murphy’s in Africa Got up again in the middle of the night. People around, and I was up for chatting but I just really wanted to find some corner and sit and write some things, who knows what, this I guess. I can’t dedicate myself to sleeping. Murphy left that for me. I can hear Russ Upstairs playing this damn music, it’s just sounds mostly, and it isn’t keeping me up, really, but it keeps me

2004-07-09T16:44:00.000-08:00

A Trip “The problem is he can’t get out of this city. “You know, physically I’ll drag him out, but mentally he’s stuck. He’s got bit by something, whatever it is I don’t care to speculate, maybe he’s seen a few things, but, well if pulling him out doesn’t work, I’m not entirely sure what will remedy that head of his.” Ruby spoke to me with his hands folded and pointed in my direction on the

2004-07-05T22:34:00.000-08:00

Horror “The drumbeat of sleeplessness is incessant, pounding, getting louder by the minute. It is a drum. It is the hull of a huge tree winding through a forest, and on top, climbing it, the dying wood becomes the seems of a widening mouth: the beast will open its lips, the wood will collapse, and then, well” He had worked himself to a sweat and he had leaned forward so much he was going to

2004-07-04T23:33:00.000-08:00

Murphy In his sleep he’d kicked over a wooden board standing near his bedside and when it crashed he woke, sweaty and alarmed. He’d been having a jungle dream: he’d been told to stay off an enormous log that stretched through the woods because it was old and rotted and because it might collapse. Murphy didn’t get a lot of sleep that summer and I didn’t see much of him either. In a way, it’s

2004-07-02T21:54:00.000-08:00

Russville at night It’s morning in Russvile. This boy has the jitters, he won’t sit still. Russville is approximately 90 miles south of Sullivan Country, 90 miles of mostly empty land, farmland, construction sites and shopping centers. Russville is in the heart of the sweaty city, you know, it smells like gas and melting skin, that’s the way it should smell, that’s how it smells to Russ right

2004-06-28T12:34:00.000-08:00

Ordinarily I wouldn’t mention Tim here. It is like swearing some place you’ve decided would be sacred. Tim is long gone anyhow, I let him rest at some point, I knew he was dying to go. But I can’t help it today. Tim was always scratching his eyes out thinking and I was stretched out today, stretched all over the place, halfway falling off my bed if you can picture it. You get it? I was scratching

2004-06-26T16:09:00.000-08:00

The Place Upstairs On the train, ruffles his hair, fidgety on an orange seat. It’s black hair; he switches to a yellow seat. It’s the electronic lottery. It’s a game show. It’s the subway. Black haired Russ has his head to the floor. He’s paranoid. He invites you to decipher which of these observations are relevant. “It’s an electric lottery,” he scribbles in his notebook, head down, “flashy and

2004-06-23T21:31:00.000-08:00

Sand Castle “HELL,” the old man says, “it’s already June. June? It’s nearly July. It’s nearly July and you haven’t been writing a thing. What have you been busy doing? I know what you’ve been doing: spending all of your time with that girl. Am I right? “It’s also that you just seem too hesitant. You’ve got to suck for a while, I know you'r worried about writing shit, but not writing isn’t going

2004-06-18T23:44:00.000-08:00

I Would Say Please if I Had To Back to the concrete where the late hour is a subdued and serene countryside: you feel no less than a King. You should have a golden crown as luminous as the traffic lights. It’s your own 2 AM world, naked, the wide empty streets do not suck you in, you dance alone, on top of the pavement, you can feel the cooling of the earth so late, and hear its quiet whispers

2004-06-14T20:44:00.000-08:00

Just another light bulb, more on the young girl The young artist is falling in love, not with me. She’s falling in love with her art teacher, what a likely story, but she would not call it love, and neither would I. The young girl, instead, has a crippling case of affection that has a very psychological origin: He is her mentor, her father, her master, a wild man and starving artist the kind

2004-06-12T07:40:00.000-08:00

A young girl, Fall 2003 Look at the artist, young woman, shy and insecure. Her voice trembles with self-doubt, her hands cover her stomach because she wants to cover her chest—to hide those small, undeveloped breasts. Her long, thin fingers fidget and she shifts her weight awkwardly. Thirty gawking eyes cover her body and then her artwork, and then back again. They are not out to judge, but

2004-06-09T18:47:00.000-08:00

June 9, the outset of Summertime: Henry. It is Summertime, by Miles Davis. In this lined little red book the first sentence you scribbled was on July 30 and the first two words were “the Blackness” and it was all about the night, but three hundred days later you’re all day. You’re all warmth. Stay hot. Grow. Fuck. You’ve got books to read. School is over; you can start to learn again. You’re

2004-06-06T19:27:00.000-08:00

In the living room, David was making a real show of himself, as though a prostitute modeling for a customer, prancing a line to one end and then back. He was not prancing like a horse does, springing forward from its hind legs. It was the prance of a proud farm cock, who struts forward, majestically, pompously, with “warlike parade.” David sat down at his desk and was faced with a series of

2004-06-01T16:12:00.000-08:00

A bus in the Empire State, May 31 The trees grow fur and the hills rise like dogs from a nap. When going fast you can see the action lines separating from the blurry images of farmland. Dormant railroad tracks are mans signature on this grassy countryside. The smell of steel and grease. The smell of cattle. It’s gone. The railroad tracks keep coming, running parallel to me. We are old friends,

2004-05-24T16:37:00.000-08:00

One time I was passionate about something I wrote The largest weakness apparent in my writing is the lack of reading I do before hand. Stephen King told me that if I couldn’t put in the time to read, I wasn’t going to be able to write well. This prerequisite of mental preparation makes sense: one of the Captain’s rules is, “seek out all art that came before,” and another, “paint your paintings

2004-05-23T16:25:00.000-08:00

Part 1: An epilogue I have probably mentioned this before: a shiny figurine of a proud looking captain, with his black captains cap and his pipe in his hand stands a short ways from my desk and my computer and my carefully unorganized papers. He’s grinning the way the Captain often grins. It was a present from the big man himself (not the lord, the Captain) when I was a small child, a tiny

2004-05-17T20:14:00.000-08:00

III “Nothing happens in the world? Are you out of your fucking mind? People are murdered every day. There's genocide, war, corruption. Every fucking day, somewhere in the world, somebody sacrifices his life to save someone else. Every fucking day, someone, somewhere makes a conscious decision to destroy someone else. People find love, people lose it. For Christ's sake, a child watches her

2004-05-16T21:40:00.000-08:00

II “Writing is about telling the truth” –Herman Melville Part 1: Guitar-strumming bandoleros I shuffled my feet on the train to the office building. I tapped my fingers to imaginary music. I glanced behind me uncomfortably, catching the eye of a stranger, turning around. I looked downwards at my lap, then rested my head against the window. You could see the occasional tunnel light dart by. To

2004-05-15T08:11:00.000-08:00

I Part 1: Arthur Dolly and The Captain used to be good friends Arthur Dolly was always an exceptional liar. He was introverted and mysterious, the way painters are supposed to seem from a distance, and his words always sounded the same whether they were dosed in mistruths or if they were one hundred percent accurate. I never met him but I know these things from The Captain, who used to be good

2004-05-13T21:24:00.000-08:00

The Contractor wrote a letter to me in the middle of the night, and I read it 24 hours later in the middle of the night, he was writing on the topic of self worth and self definitions (though Arthur Dolly always pretentiously and fashionably scoffed the concept of definitions or titles) “What are your bones doing here?” The Contractor wrote in his last letter to me, addressed just the night

2004-05-08T16:07:00.000-08:00

Haiku An inquisitive European was traveling the train lines of New York City, killing time before he met up with his American university student girlfriend. He had cut his hair short and wore fashionable jeans. He didn’t speak to me, but he was a foreigner feeling comfortable on my home soil and I know he wanted to tell me, to declare, “You American kids are in such denial of who you are;

2004-05-07T20:43:00.000-08:00

“As I pointed out before, characters are not born like people, of woman; they are born of a situation, a sentence, a metaphor containing in a nutshell a basic human possibility that the author thinks no one else has discovered or said something essential about. “But isn’t it true that an author can write only about himself?” –M.K. Part 1: Arthur Dolly Arthur Dolly is a big hit these days. He

2004-05-02T18:33:00.000-08:00

Onions, May 2, a love letter: I am naked in the bath. When you take baths regularly you cannot help but witness your defenseless, naked body under the bathroom light. Especially in a bathroom like mine that is all mirrors. This can be an act of vanity (like propping your completed painting awkwardly on top of a chair, center stage of your room, so that you gaze at it always, peering into its

2004-05-01T11:48:00.000-08:00

And finally there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers. Franz, for example. He traveled to the borders of Cambodia only for Sabina. As the bus bumped along the Thai road, he could feel her eyes fixed on him in a long stare. –M.K. Part 1: An imaginary stare The Contractor was eager to

2004-04-25T16:38:00.000-08:00

Part 1: The rules of characters and a strange invitation Before we go any further on this blog there has to be an explanation of a few things concerning characters. I would like to first examine what happens to lost characters and then stress the existence of a line that stands boldly between the world of characters (this is the same as the world of Blogs) and the human world. First: regard

2004-04-22T08:43:00.000-08:00

The following message is approved by Henry Chapman. Part 1: The Blog I do a lot of talking about the Blog on my Blog because it is still a relatively new and exciting form of expression that deserves to be examined, mocked and indulged in. Condensed from the term “web log,” the Blog has rapidly grown in popularity over the past few years. The link at the bottom of my page is a website that

2004-04-19T18:26:00.000-08:00

A song on “repeat,” an expression of lunacy (the lunar moons aligned; sex bodies aligned!)—a pounding on the wall of dissatisfaction with dissatisfaction, mostly, a typical blog entry Across the way is a sliver of window where the things walk past. Humanoid, certainly. This window, you can tell, is illuminated by a common lamp. It is a pale yellow rectangle through which peeking eyes can spot

2004-04-17T17:38:00.000-08:00

Part 1: Rob Oberbeck 4 America Rob Oberbeck 4 America Above is a link to my new campaign headquarters. If you’re tired of inconsistency, if you’re tired of grammatical errors, if you’re tired of the same old stories and the same old writing, vote for me. Let’s unseat Henry Chapman this April and make Coming Home something to be proud of. [Please see the Rob Oberbeck Campaign Headquarters for

2004-04-15T17:56:00.000-08:00

April 15, 2004. Robert Frost and I come to terms with my breakup of three years ago. Part 1: Introduction to the case study I inaccurately place blame on April 15th as being the cause of most of my more current psychological problems. I will not make any excuses; it is profound vanity that leads me to think I would be a good case study in the examination of how the concepts of love and sex

2004-04-14T20:21:00.000-08:00

Blog-Entry – noun-- A collection of scattered thoughts and hapless attempts at self-expression. If you write on a blog you are constantly talking to yourself, so it is not surprising that I insist on addressing myself repeatedly. Henry: Little Henry inside the screen, you all right? How yah doin’? (Sung to the “Little Prune Song,” which more or less starts off, little seed inside the prune,

2004-04-13T16:10:00.000-08:00

An open letter from the American Family Association (www.afa.net) April 13, 2004. Henry Chapman, The recent decision by the FCC to not shut down the Coming Home blog has saddened all of us at the American Family Association (AFA) and has moved us to take initiative. We have several grievances with your organization but would first like to make it clear that it is not only for the preservation

2004-04-11T20:12:00.000-08:00

Rob Oberbeck contributing his second installment in Henry's leave The Father A young boy at a party who feels out of place feels infinitely younger and a beer bottle that he has only disdain for feels indescribably heavier. It is heavy because it is a large opened box of self-deprecating emotions that weigh down on his adolescent arms. This particular young boy stands awkwardly, grasping his

2004-04-06T20:57:00.000-08:00

Part 1: The first mention of a dream on the blog, it is fictional though Note this dream, it is about many things, even dreams. It is the lust for and the great fear of the colliding of all worlds within ones self. Because the self coexists, and this is nothing new, in all sorts of different worlds and there is a constant struggle to reach harmony within all of them. Only very genuinely happy

2004-04-04T15:32:00.000-08:00

Rob Oberbeck fills in while Henry is on suspended leave. The Manhattanization of Brooklyn Brooklyn used to be tough. Walking down Fifth Avenue in Park Slope Brooklyn, you can see the signs of a once economically troubled area. The 1970’s weren’t good to New York City and Brooklyn still holds a stigma as being bad. Brooklyn has renown for being dangerous, connoting gang and drug problems. That

2004-04-03T09:26:00.000-09:00

Federal Communications Commission Federal Communications Commission 445 12th Street, SW Washington, DC 20554 CFR (Code of Federal Regulations) service code: 1028 Dated: April 2004 To: Blogger Corporation, “Coming Home” You are receiving this message as notification of violation of rules and regulations observed by the Federal Communications Commission concerning public decency. April 1,

2004-04-01T20:11:00.000-09:00

Of a boat 1 I have never written about a sailor, and if I have it was purely coincidental. I have never deliberately discussed any specific sailor for a variety of reasons, the most apparent of which is that I have never been to sea. Still, a childhood fictional character stands proudly near my desk (my desk, my desk! I never dismantled it, what a farce) and looks out with big, friendly eyes,

2004-03-30T17:51:00.000-09:00

III Part 1: Thoughts about Huck Before I handed over this blog to Huck, the last image of my self I had left to you was Henry at Port Authority Bus Terminal, and the bus pulled out, and I rode off triumphantly (this is how it looked on my VHS mental copy.) At the time I had a heavy feeling on my heart of anxiousness and anticipation. You might be wondering how genuine my feelings of

2004-03-28T18:37:00.000-09:00

II A letter from out West dated March/04, addressed to, Huck Coming Home Blog greatchanges.blogspot.com New York, New York 12687 Huck, The first thing I would like to say about your country (“Big Sky Country,” Montana, notice the first inconsistency if you must) is that I have noticed an almost unduly emphasis on morals, responsibility and the etiquette between one person and another. (

2004-03-27T15:52:00.000-09:00

Huck's introduction. Alec Schierenbeck guest stars as Huck. 1) There’s no doubt, Henry doesn’t know what he’s getting into out West. I can just see him now- running bow legged (the chafing too much to handle), throwing ropes hopelessly over cattle and such. He’ll get better though, it’s a process after all. The first step in my process was to find out what exactly this whole blog thing was

2004-03-25T11:21:00.000-09:00

I Going Away Part 1: Huck Huck is not named after the famous novel by Mark Twain. He is named after a slice of steak (here for a moment, stop and think of a slab of steak, bubbling, rough in texture and crackling towards the heavier part of the bone, fat and slimy near its juicy boarders) that is dripping of animal blood symbolic of west America, cattle herding, the Western equivalent of King

2004-03-20T21:26:00.000-09:00

1. T.S. Elliot mentioned something about exploring. It gave me the impression of a circle. What I mean is, he talked about how you should explore (some place foreign, some place strange) and then come back to where you started and know that place better than you did before you first set out. This reminded me of the “full circle” metaphor I hear about often. 2. Everybody I have ever met

2004-03-17T17:50:00.000-09:00

Part 1: A neurological disorder of level 10 importance, 2004 First I would like to talk about myself for a change. There are a series of folders being stored within the flimsy insulation that protects my brain from the course surface of my cranium, it is a tissue of some sort, micro fiber, synthetic gak, maybe. Each folder is labeled with its subject, a number signifying its level of importance

2004-03-14T11:20:00.000-09:00

An improper confession 1. On the train sitting with my hands in my lap, it’s quiet except for the rails. 2. On the bus looking forwards, at night there isn’t much traffic here. My hands are rested on the metal pole attached to the seat ahead of me. 3. The first ½ of Henry: There are no words, ridiculous author! You are convinced that there are, but you’re wrong. You’ve failed so far to

2004-03-12T07:33:00.000-09:00

Parts 1 and 2: Joseph Ruby has a brother, Joseph of all people, an interesting character himself, to “whom” I will devote the next small bit of writing to. I was completely unaware that he had anything of an immediate family still living, having always figured him a man alone in the world, to be honest, assuming he had come straight from the womb into a world of self-reliance, impossible to be a

2004-03-07T12:23:00.000-09:00

Part 1: Stefano. This man was a potential Walter. He had the grimace, concentration and stare of a Ruby. The physical embodiment of several names of several old men characters I have thought up before. If he were a little taller he could have been Sullivan, if he were a little kinder, a little less focused, a little more helpless, he could have been that Sullivan—that old man of all old men I’ve

2004-03-04T16:38:00.000-09:00

Three meaningless events occurring on the fourth that were of mild success: 1. A near catastrophe on 59th St. was narrowly averted. A Chinese woman walking in my direction gestured a swerve at the very last second right in the middle of the street, nearly causing me to shift directly into her. Her umbrella would have brutally punctured my eye and our collision would have resulted in one of us

2004-03-01T18:14:00.000-09:00

Part 1: Introduction of a Guest Blogger You wouldn’t believe the accumulation of papers that can grow on a desk. A polish man I read once fervently railed against the usage of desks. They are confining and give way to an unhealthy state of existence. A place where you can’t feel you are yourself unless you’ve strapped yourself to a desk. The following is a passage by an old and distant

2004-02-28T22:00:00.000-09:00

Here I opened up conversation by referring to her as a pet name, romantic and tender lovers loving name, a darling, a sweet honey of mine, beautiful mariposa and enchanting mistress of my dreams kind of name. It was repulsive. She responded kindly, pleased at the spontaneous affection. This had not been my goal, only out of curiosity had I tested the waters of our acquaintanceship. She quickly

2004-02-26T20:46:00.000-09:00

They’re taking our guns! —But we have no guns to give them. Look, we are helpless and defenseless (restless, you temptress.) 1: About something I would like to write but am doubtful. First impression… Building. Meeting. Young people are organizing. “Radical” group? Cause? One specific boy, he’s the main character of course. You say boy but you mean… young man? It has to be a male, right? Yes.

2004-02-25T18:58:00.000-09:00

Here I will start introducing previously unmentioned (though some already established) characters into my blog so that you don’t have to suffer your time solely with myself. Tomorrow I plan to have a chat with Coney Island. I’ve been meaning to have a really in-depth, fireside, intimate conversation with the beach but it is not as sociable as you might think. It takes some time to trust others

2004-02-23T19:59:00.000-09:00

A Confession of Guilty Pleasure and The Heartbreak of Losing It If you’ll permit me to be banal for a minute (unlike my usual sort of bullshit,) For the past five months or so, a strong emotional attachment has been growing between The West Wing and myself. I am the first to admit this and I am not ashamed. Not entirely. I would not like to say much on this topic but just a quick something: I

2004-02-22T16:49:00.001-09:00

That’s what makes them extremists. Thoughts on a movie I saw recently with Hannah, a friend of mine: I can only imagine what it would be to devote oneself to a cause or an idea so completely that it dominates every thought and every action. What creates extremists out of regular people could be any number of things, but it seems to me that in every case it is a strong personal response to

2004-02-16T20:58:00.001-09:00

A man drops a parcel. Listen to a story of mine that happened in real life just the other day. It is a mystery and a comedy at once. I had gone outside to make a phone call on my cell phone and “get a breath of fresh air.” It was surprisingly warm in the sun, the nicest February weather you could hope for. I finished with my call and sat vacantly on a stoop near my apartment building to think

2004-02-15T01:04:00.000-09:00

2/15/04, about 3:30 AM. A chronicle of a single night in February using “I” as part of the description. I’ve done this before. What I’m doing right now I once did in warmer temperatures and at that time it was with a friend, wasting away the poor and unkempt hours before dawn in familiar spots around Brooklyn. I just got off the train, spending a little under an hour and a half coming home

2004-02-13T20:54:00.000-09:00

Part 1: Introduction to the young boy The young boy (whose first pair of breasts were those from a 1980’s romantic comedy) grew up in this country and despite the movie in his living room knows very little about the rest of the world. He knows very little about the female body, and though he doesn’t think so, very little about his own body. He has yet to fathom the reality of physical love, no,

2004-02-12T17:33:00.000-09:00

I recently finished a book given to me as a present on the subject of forgetting and now, today, think that one argument raised in the book could be stated as: It is a real blessing that we have the ability to forget. (The book also mentioned the commonness and error of forgetting) A young boy who grows up near and around women, in a society that has embraced, lavished, manufactured and clichéd

2004-02-11T20:12:00.000-09:00

Can it be possible to be both wrong and true at the same time? A girl known once, honest, unhappy, blond, a “street dog” (troublemaker, teenager or even a beautifully raw and sexual thing) told me recently that it is such a shame that I hide what’s good about me behind fakeness. Consider an old black woman who has a crippling development in her leg that causes her to limp. She has been alive

2004-02-09T17:39:00.000-09:00

Part 1: The old man proves me wrong about something. I sat down with the old man again and he had a good amount to say. It was relatively quiet in the café we chose, and let me make it clear that despite the accent on the “e” this place was unfancy, unrefined, unpoetic, and so with few distractions I was able to focus and remember most of what he had to tell me. I can’t be sure if the old man

2004-02-08T15:37:00.000-09:00

Time is going quickly, it’s already been a year since the last February, but another way of looking at it is, it’s been a whole long year! More things about this man: He is my perfect old man. Quieted in his old age, not silent, because he still has much to say, but what is the point in volume? He is especially quiet in contrast to his youth, which seems loud and romantic, filled with stories of

2004-02-06T14:11:00.000-09:00

I met a man who explained to me that he was a terrible lover despite his careful focus on love. He never met a woman he could be a friend and lover and sexual partner to, because they were always just one of the three. If he, in his head, turned a woman into a lover, he could not really be their friend or sexual partner. He could sleep with them, sure, and carry on chats the way that friends do,

2004-02-01T17:21:00.000-09:00

The first of February, nighttime, I am going to hang an art show tomorrow: the culmination of six months work. When I think of my show I feel vulnerable so that there is an excess of self-doubt and skepticism, I ask myself, “What is the point?” and worry more that other people ask themselves, “What is the point?” And it is such an awful feeling; I am too sensitive. I see all of the people I

2004-01-30T21:21:00.000-09:00

This is the third time I’ve tried writing today starting with “Now,” so that the first was before I had reached goals, the second was after I hadn’t met them, and Now the feeling of failure has long been subdued to the night. So, As though Cormac McCarthy had written it, (and I mention him because he once started a novel with,) “Dear friend,” Now the drifting spots of snow are penguin patches

2004-01-27T21:57:00.000-09:00

I think about love sometimes, though not as much as I let on. Asking questions about love gets you nowhere. They are still asked as such, “Is it possible to love at this age?” And, “Will I ever truly find love?” And the worst, most confused and hopeless, “What is love, really?" Love is a theme that constitutes only one of three functions of my being, so it is difficult to find any permanence

2004-01-26T20:33:00.000-09:00

January 26. There is a great capacity in people to extend almost limitless kindness and generosity. In the winter it is cold and it is busy, and on occasion people give to each other a warmth and peace that renews an optimism in the world that is tried daily. We are young still, and it is easy to refresh that optimism. What white outside, and cold too, when I woke. I was sort of eager for

2004-01-24T10:09:00.000-09:00

A morning in Brooklyn, And man was created and he pillaged the lands, and life and thoughts and wants and god stuck like beads of sweat glistening on the skin of man, glistened like the western sun on his inherited lands, and it was flesh that drove them forwards, rich seductive flesh that danced in their minds and dripped of hot desire. And in Brooklyn it is deserted, morning near the bridge,

2004-01-21T19:49:00.000-09:00

If you could only see yourself now Walt Whitman, you smug sonnuvabitch. Your posture is poor you know. Look at you standing there, 1849, you’ve pushed your pelvis forward as far as it’ll go, you lusting after America, O furious! I took my clothes off to write and then I put them back on, it’s been days since I’ve masturbated, “what is this that frees me so in storms?”

2004-01-19T07:24:00.001-09:00

When I sit like I do sometimes, against the old wooden chair and my head under the lamp shade, I think that I am the indulgent and gluttonous and uncultured, boorish but weak (“artistic,”) hormonal and mollycoddled which, actually, is a word, nurtured and well-broiled, hamburgers of the Midwest, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named wrote, “It occurs to me that I am America.” When I return from my voyage

2004-01-18T09:01:00.000-09:00

"Once when I asked for a cigarette, some jokers gave me a reefer, which I lighted when I got home..." Wintry mix, I need a fix. Look no further. Bjork lives in my mind now, has a home there, she is making noise up above the stairs and I hear it when my back is to the wall on my mattress looking down at the little red book. I almost dated this June, does that mean my head is in the summertime?

2004-01-16T22:31:00.000-09:00

January 17, 1:46 AM, New York City, it is late, I am thirsty for water. Something I thought about: A looming shadow stretches across the pavement at night, no, several of them, gliding silhouettes. Like heavenly angels these large shapes spread open their wings as though messengers from the hand of God were being dropped onto the Earth, Brooklyn, New York City. And then you see, this is no

2004-01-14T20:36:00.000-09:00

Part 1: Erratic-journalistic-romantic, tourettes. Approximately, I’ve made seven lists this week. I feign organization. I am not organized. I have not been writing this week, once today about Anne Lemott, did not use it for anything, the last time I wrote was 11:19 AM on January 11. I know because I marked it down. Dear Bonnie: Scratch that, I never wrote to Bonnie. She is my Ghana coordinator

2004-01-10T06:43:00.001-09:00

The smell of second hand smoke, and I wonder how many people really die from it? They always say it kills. Who? Sex on the mind, sex mind is a different entity than the rest of the mind, two bodies separated and often quarreling, don’t they know A House Divided Cannot Stand? I’ll probably smoke cigarettes someday and then I won’t have to worry about second hand smoke anymore. I keep thinking

2004-01-08T20:10:00.000-09:00

More of an idea in my head, without title and in loosely structured thoughts: When I read the prologue to Invisible Man, or the first half of it anyway (what did I do to get so black and blue, etc.) I thought: I don’t want to read another racism book. Another plight-of-the-African American book. I was still, mentally, On the Road, and the Black bits in that book sort of escaped me, except in

2004-01-07T18:51:00.000-09:00

An idea in my head with no specific title or definition but a short 175 words to describe (a hundred less than the Gettysburg Address): Concrete and wall, tight jeans black New York: it’s the 1980’s. It’s hip-hop. It’s graffiti. It’s Spike Lee Doing The Right Thing New York City. In Purple (mountain’s majesty) spray-paint and it’s “what is America to the black man, man,” Negro African American.

2004-01-05T17:37:00.000-09:00

I sit naked slumped against the wall, scattered patches of hair and man and hopelessly white, yellow and reddened skin, bones, contortions of body forming shapes and lines and shadows of every indent. I look at myself the way I look at those models, cold, impersonal, but always with an irritating curiosity of where these bones and flesh and cock and dimples (I don’t have them but I’ve been told I

2004-01-04T16:42:00.000-09:00

At the start of the year, before I forget: Henry, It’s 2004. A decade ago you were nothing, four years ago you were nothing, “a lot can happen in four years,” are you still nothing? You were just a child at the start of this century, you’re a child in many ways now, it’s burning up in this bath, and always that damn piano, but, in another two years you might not ever hear any piano again for as

2004-01-03T15:51:00.000-09:00

On a truck on the highway it Said, “you’re America,” And I laughed about it in bars Watching beautiful women like I could Make them my own. To my left the drunk told me he’d Played the lotto, But he’d never won And we laughed over beers about The state Of luck everywhere, then, he told me, “If I made it in this country, I’d have dishes in the sink, With a telephone sitting by, I’d have some

2003-12-28T21:14:00.000-09:00

An open letter to Jack Kerouac. December 28, 2003. Jack Kerouac, I would be a romantic, if I heaved my body into the reckless chasm of self-destruction, if I sought out and exploited one poison after another: poisons to cripple my body, slowly, slowly, a great decaying of my innards, poisons to ease my mind of the manmade pains and sufferings overworked and medium rare, I would be a