2003-09-27 - 5:21 p.m.
i am in new jersey. at my cousins house. the burbs. open space and quiet and space. space is very much a class thing. you can get if you got money.
and no wonder folks move to the suburbs. everything like death and other decay are snuffed out. food doesnt rot, rats dont scurry around and the stench of alcohol or the stepping over of broken bottles doesnt encroach on your particular pursuit for that day. there is a kinda lulling to sleep any notion of temporary or death.
it is a coming back home but not the goal.
i been playing around with my little 6 year old cousin. took him to play a little tennis. went to the toy store to get him something. he is hyper with a capital HYPER. God damn
trying to keep up. i can hang, though even on a few hrs sleep.
thrs and friday were awesome. lounged about and studied or alternatively didnt.
read and read suheir autobiography.
heard an old june sound recording.
she says you gotta write a poem to save a persons life. each poem should attempt to be memorable and save a persons life. and the interviewer said
Aint that a stretch.
and she said in that articulate sorta way that there is so much hopelessness and suferring that poetry has the ability to get folks to get a glimpse, see each other for real, straight ahead and in that way reach out to the other. because so much ambivalence comes from the fact that we dont really know the other person that is going through all the hard times.
okay gotta go home and get ready for medicine.
try to write something that saves somebodys life
and move toward a medicine that stands up better than slim shady.
sri
