Sunday, November 4, 1984

Mere pseud

I’ll look back from some vantage point in the future and laugh. I’m merely a pseud, nothing more. What was I really expecting?

Saturday, November 3, 1984


Listen you ignorant crass BASTARD!

Yes, YOU!

Now I’m getting facetious and letting slip that since June 8 1980 I haven’t made one FUCKING bit of progress—no way. Situation ‘hold’. Unshaven, things in a mess, looking ill-fitting, wrong somehow in the mirror, not to the desired formula. I look a mess.

I think about things that pain me: the loss of momentum, mystification of objectives. “Break through in the grey room”? More like petrifaction.

Rain outside, but no more on that here, because I feel I ought to sum things up with words of breathtaking, all encompassing wisdom and wit. 

Words of wisdom.
Words of wit.
Words that show I’m full of shit..
Words of splendour,
Words of power,
Words that show I’ve had my hour.
Words of facile, artless grace,
Words that mock me to my face.
Words like concrete,
Words that bend,
Words beginning-middle-end.
Words of insult.
Words of merit.
Words, my misfortune to inherit. 

Friday, November 2, 1984

Late night angle poise

I’ll never regain what’s been lost, and I’ve lost it simply through idleness and the acceptance of chaos. So I’m writing in an effort to escape this claustrophobic sense of self but, in turning to words for relief, I find only undisciplined thinking and a suffocating, limited vocabulary.

As long as I live I’ll never overcome this dissatisfaction with wordsWordsWORDS!! 

It’s hard to express ideas and emotions through this confining medium, and this is an oft-repeated thought I know but it’s one I can’t escape. Some people find words effective at conveying the ideas and images they want to pass on to others, but I’m scared of them and that’s the truth of it, no more, no less. All my writerly aspirations and hang-ups and beliefs in the bookword product, the final act, has me forgetting the real purpose behind language, which is the communication of self.

Words must serve self, and the sooner I learn that and shake off all these half-cocked and self defeating attitudes the better. At this point and from this angle I’m beaten before I’ve even begun. Which must be wrong. So let these words declare themselves as immutable and irrefutable evidence of me as I am now, a fixed point in space and time (Friday November 2nd, 1984, 10:17 p.m., 12 Westdorgan Road, Watermouth), which at least gives me a reference point, a start.

What am I trying to say? At the beginning of this entry I had no clear idea or intention as to how to proceed, no purpose or methodology, just a pen scrabbling across the paper and tired eyes in the weak piss yellow of late night angle poise. Look back at the top of the page, see the mistakes multiply and expand, rolling forth with their crazy unplanned distortions and fabrications across the page. I’m lost in the tangled tentacles of language, lost in the ‘city of words’.

Any original purpose or meaning is dulled, nothing becomes clear or clearer, and I’m left with the dry taste of stale tea in my mouth, tealeaves between my teeth, feeling helpless.


Thursday, November 1, 1984


I feel like giving up with all this and pitching headlong into a thoughtless routine of easy laughs, drunken bouts, food, and TV.

Guilty as charged. 

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