Second Halves, Keys, Portraits

Doesn't a life, a good life, require a desire? Some hope, some facet of future consequence? It must be pretentious to seek a state of no desire, or else you're seeking no good life. By good, I mean something fruitful, something fulfilling, which a state of no desire does not fulfill. It's too much of an ideal, almost a statement. But a statement to whom? To myself? I hope not to you.

Today a ripped more periwinkle, I doubled the pile of pulled periwinkle. After the pulling, I took half a Paxil. I got a call from a nurse telling me I had an appointment in an hour and a half to see a psychiatrist - I had to call the psychiatrist myself, however, to confirm. I called and told them today was no good. Maybe early next week. I don't want to see my psychiatrist, because she doesn't listen to me, and she does not make any sense. I don't believe she can comprehend some of what I try to tell her, and this makes her diagnoses seem spot random, since I myself have more than a hell of a time trying to make sense of what I think, if I think, and what I feel, if I feel.

I looked at some porn, felt sick, and took a bath. I took an ativan afterwards, and played my pitiful guitar for an hour in high noon sunlight. I watched some television with Mike. I came home and something. My mum, and something. She went to yoga, and I cleaned the kitchen and made dinner. She came home, and we ate dinner. I cleaned up a little bit. My hands felt very dry. The windows were foggy from the sap still boiling - today I made a trip up into the woods, apparantly the sap is still flowing.

I waited for half an hour after dinner, and then I took an Ativan. I began to get ready to do a pastel, but just as I had gotten the blue down on the white paper, my mum called. She had locked her key in the car at a gas station down in the ghetto. I left and brought her a second key. I finished my pastel portrait. This was my second try. I took half a Seroquel tonight. I hope I fall asleep soon.

A poem:

for dinner tonight, i present
whole wheat hair, double scalped
from organic twins, minced skin
flakes grated from thirty year old
lard, he thought he was healthy up
til, well til last week

a' spicey eye ball, in a chunky
ragu goo, sauteed curly haired
scalps, fresh from brazil

a salad, tossed with waxy ears
which were being tossed away
on the curbs near the school
where my mum works

and finally, some bread,
second hand, i mean, above the hand
two french forearms, crust shaved
finelym, and toasted in
my uncle's built in
tanning bed

for desert, sweet ho hatos
skinned and carmeled
in the neon gas station grates