October 2000

In retrospect, raincoat and hat and crazy beat poetics do not experience their satoris every time it rains on the streets of Paris. This popular misconception by fading alcoholic recoverted Catholics comes within the pages of nonsense, and although every idealistic quality one ever gave to his slow death and his long mind is now reverted, we still find his words beautiful and peaceful-despite his agony.*

This is only the beginning of my night of reawakening (I act like this is a crucial moment in time of my life-but do not be fooled. I have had sixteen thousand nights of reawakening, some of them mornings and afternoons but mostly nights. This night is of little importance, but in a short term sense, it feels nice and I appreciate it immensely.) As I was saying, sex and booze and lackadaisical (which is a word from the backward workings of my vocabulary that I am now retrieving) thoughts are filling the air-sexual encounters are flooding my dreams and my days and as frustration builds calmness soothes and I am spoiled by my own hand. I do not mind this-my hand certainly does not mind this-the preacher on the corner of 6th and 38th may mind this but then again he minds everyone else's business and I guess that's his divine duty-and certainly the housecleaner minds this when she washes the clothes in her self-pitying essence. But me? I do not mind this.

I have too much on my mind yet not enough to say. For instance,

And thus, we avert back to our original centerpiece of consciousness- nothingness. Or in Butler's** criticized words, "the importance of unimportance." We do not really know what this means-perhaps this is why it was judged so poorly. English teachers do not understand much, and one of the things they truly do not understand is creativity that makes little or no sense. They also do not understand anything but their modern form of creativity-this is how we produced authors like Danielle Steel and John Grisham. Now they know how to write-unfortunately, they know how to write far too well and therefore they are horrible writers and I will never read their worthless crap again. Nobody cares about sex they can't have, nobody cares about lawyers either. Maybe sex fiends and lawyers do-ok, I take that back. Nobody but sex fiends and lawyers care about sex they can't have and other lawyers.

Now I am through. Goodnight and good evening, ladies and gentlemen, the stream has run dry although its mountainous source promises a fresh melt come thaw. You will wait for fresh water-I can feel it. You will wait.



*Refers to Jack Kerouac's later years, when he wrote Satori in Paris.

**A friend of mine, who wrote a beautiful two page essay on the important of unimportant and received a failing grade in his far too linear English class- I do not exaggerate when I say this essay was beautiful.

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