I have not written here in six months.

I think about things too much.  So much pain about thinking about fascism and my thinking.  I failed to act upon the strengths which made strong calls for softness a lone.

These sentences cannot stand for the entirety of why there is reading.

I am reading Robert Creeley's collected poetry from 1975-2005.  He writes many poems deceptively simply in a way that reminds me of my own poetry but which is full of structure in few words.  He also writes about subjects which help me in my own life.  I have marked some of those passages in the book .  Please forgive me for not looking them up.  The book is upstairs and it is too much work to reconstruct the precise emotional states that make up the common threads in our lives.  There are also many differences, some quite puzzling.  Then of course his gender affects his approach to women, love and death, at least so far in the life he was leading in his late 40s and early 50s.

I have read over two hundred pages of poetry in only a few days.  This is the first time in a long time that I have read so much so quickly.  Perhaps this will give you an idea how much his poetry appeals to me.

I am presently preparing to fly to Arizona to stay with my friend Carol in Sierra Vista.  There is a possibility that I will buy my brother's half of our parents' house and that I will live there.  Possibly I will be even more bored if I do this.  Boredom can kill I want to tell the bourgeoisie who have organized our society around work and nothing else.  When I was at Oxford we used to sit around for hours just talking.  The same at Transie House.  Unfortunately when there is no substance to life other than being on the margins, there is a great temptation to get high, which is dangerous physically and emotionally.  And with meth there is a way of life in which meth is the substance metaphorically and literally of life and thieving for the money is part of that.  I do not want to wind up in jail.  Apparently          I do not hate the police enough to find an embrace from that culture.

I find what I have written above is, as usual, insufficient.  There is so much angst about this.

I feel bad.

'tis a very cruel pain which inhabits me.  So much anger about my art.  My art is a mental art.  I wish to practice, instead, magic.

I have so much cynicism.  There is no room for skepticism and intelligence in the world of the public mental health client.  I am not supposed to have a brain.

Tracy, my meth buddy, told me to go up.  

I am hopeful for a way to use what is left of my mind.  So much of what I don't understand involves organizing materials for work.  I resent the fact that my organizational skills are not adequate for the slave drivers, I mean bosses.

I wish to be thankful for the few good friends I have.  Even they don't share my ambition, except maybe fr Rusty, whose career has ended in an active retirement.  I feel I would only embarrass myself by going to a college teacher and giving my life story.  There is so much dubious in it.  WHY are you addicted to drugs?  WHY did you think getting high with black people would counteract racism?

My whole story boils down to dissolution and my various dissatisfactions.  How can I try to earn respect from people who would never have made the same choices?  Everything points to just living life, which is the whole problem to begin with.

Seize the day!