Studying Hunger Journals, page 33
From now on the David-character is referred to as Belial. The cover of this text implies a structure and a schedule and the book has lines. I am writing out of sync, out of order, I need more air: first I’m cold then I need more air: at least the book is new and poetry is long, can’t be counted, on. At the beginning of every text, you grow to begin this way past Eve and Adam, you bow to titles if you’re conscious if you’re aware that at the moment, incendiary, you are speaking only more than everyone you know and in an instant you wish to be included and one and one and one and one. If I said it, if I just said it would it be made or just said. I wish now I could begin again.
The book bends pretty good, energy leaving the pen, everything’s swell, terror in an instant and shut down the recorder for fear but I did notice that a big splotch of yellow shaped like a thundercloud, that is, shaped like thunder and shaped like a cloud like both bright yellow in a dream gave me hope. Yellow, with a grain to it. Texture is a connection, like you. Just like I suspected without even trusting myself, I couldn’t suspend it for a day, even a day, just for eating; everyone else can, what’s left to do but know too much and eat them.
Bell. Ocean, the lesson of the ocean is you can always skip a page. A sch(ed)ule of fish rules the letter of the sea.
Tuesday October 31
$21 for three green drinks. We argue about the bill: seven dollars for each green drink? A small town is on strike, the underwear store. Jane Fonda’s drunk on green drinks with her mother, half in the water. That was a movie that ought to be made, a political film: Jane Fonda with her green drinks at water level, her mother sitting on the steps of the pool. They discuss life. Jane is so drunk that when she laughs she bends over and gets her face wet in the pool.
Some so and surface schedule to be conscious, to be not-conscious, those are the issues, pricks pricking the stomach, “write a novel,” time, dogs barking wait for egress, the size of words, big words little words, the smells of words, sour words, the freedom to, after you haven’t for years, after you never have before, take something, like, “write a novel” so far. How much further could there be? Seeing as how you could never space symphonies as all crunched up at moments as you had to be in mind on many levels to be read, mind being red.
