wildcat

Miserable out, ruinous, and I have to walk up the hill and then down the hill into Fernwood. Stared into a book of Pablo Neruda's Odes this afternoon, in a book shop. I'm from a Northern climate, however, and miserable ragged bird-calls settle my bones and colonize the marrow. My heating bill is too high; I can survive wearing sweaters but I'm afraid other people can't.

Might toss the Bill Richardson novel about Alice B. Toklas into my bag. I wish I could read while I walked places, because my discman batteries seem to drain too fast and they're devoid of power right now. Devoid. Instead, I'll just do the usual routine of writing entire novels in the time it takes me to get down Cedar Hill, until it's Fernwood Avenue and then I'll be at the Belfry Theatre.

Hope everyone comes tonight. I know they won't, I know everybody's hung over or working on portfolios or not speaking to each other, but it's difficult not to give into the Bollywood Fantasy Sequence of a Golden Age, when Shining, Brilliant Ones merge and emerge into and from each other.

Thought about going out tonight naked, nude, unclothed. Instead, I did the laundry.