Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Death By 1000 Papercuts
I'm going to start keeping a notebook. I have thoughts and ideas I'd love to explore that evaporate while I sleep. During the workday I am an arthritic automaton, but in my solitary night I have carnivals and parades and fireworks factory detonations causing disturbances of the peace in my head. When 4am approaches and the last gong is sounded, I lay down only to arise the next day with nothing but spilled ketchup and relish, trampled popcorn, and tire grooves crushing the grass as evidence of the eve's festivities. Maybe the notebook will serve to polaroid the carousels, merry-go-rounds, and bingo tent hollerings. If I can manage to alchemize those giggling phantoms into gravity-bound flesh, I might just manage to teach one of them to walk.
Allow me to pause this recording to dig through the flotsam abound in this office in hopes of finding a suitable tablet.
I have it. It's 120 college ruled pages, a third full of helpdesk notes undecipherable to none but their writer. That's good, because I am horrible with new blank pages. I have 4 or 5 diaries in which I never broke page 7. I shall delude myself that starting on page 42 will change the outcome this time. The last date on the last page used is sometime in October 2001, so it won't be missed.
Now I have to hope that interrupting my brain to write won't fuck up the whole stream of thinking. It really is quite an exhilarating experience that I can only acheive alone and slightly intoxicated. I can always throw it away if need be. Better yet, set it down next to me and casually forget about it forever.
1:44 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
Violence And Apathy
Pope Bubble Crotch
We Are The Helpdesk
Rock N Roll McDonald's
Happy Birthday, Dad
Fuck A Title