2011 Manuscripts: November

Exactly Non-Exactlies: One, Dun Dun Dun the Begging the-questioninnings

Location: Arcata, CA, 1355 Queer streete. Apt A for Winner, but not really. At all.

                        Further Location: Bright blue room, sitting on carpet of capitalism, leaning on the purple bed of privilege.

Date: November 11^th, 2011; 11-11-11.

Time: Western ideology of time- 8:48 pm. In current “timezone”.

            Martian time: Now; Grok time.

             My time: sleepy.

Doings; happenstancings: I had a moment, now, eating cereal and yogurt and Kobe’s zante currants. A moment like all the rest, but different. I want to take moments, like this, to type down everything I am doing at the moment, for future reference. [If all the Ifs fall into place, that is.] A moment of moments, exactly what I am doing. But of course, not at all, or, only, but. Eats, shoots, leaves.

I sit here now, comp in lap, clitoris for a head, angry, disenchanted, and hopeful beyond any fart of the brain (a habitual excreter). In front of me is my school baton rouge backpack, an electric guitar slumped up against the wall like James Dean, but too fuzzy from the drinks to hit on Oswald mi cello (!). Oswald, standing wounded but graceful, like a bloody crane I see at the marshes. I’m devouring cereal, eating too quickly but not enough, hating that food costs money and therefore my life costs money. I owe the world payment just to defecate. At least I have deemed it sublime poopings. Grreat Shits. I am the shit, a suspect narcissist according to ----, the too-skinny academic who finds me attractive and loveable, frustrated too cos I wont make a move on her, insecurities abound. Cereal bowl could whistle, I licked it clean, unlike cunts as of late.

I’m worried about my body. No, not the physical appearance, for once. I am worried about my digestive system, my intestines. The damage done, the needle and the damage done, from stress and life and Being. I am worried about my arms, which crack and are too spindly. I know I need worry less and work more. And maybe as I Live I will let myself grow into my Spirit; strong and solid. I am putting hope in the future, right Now. Grok. Grok it out.

Going to the greenhouse. A noche. Alana is performing, all them vicious and vivacious ladies, gentlemen, gentladies and ladymen. Justin, beautiful.

Moving from queer street. To homoerotic street. All I want right now is to have my own apartment, Now. And be fucking ----- over every appliance and piece of furniture in both Plaza design and said apartment.

Denying the biological, I do. But, eh, I am an animal. A graceful cat, lynx. A Uniqorn, truly. Above all else, Viracocha and a Uniqorn.

Narcissistic. Gotta, cos its paired with disgust and shame toosies. Lets fix this nightmare up and face eleveneleveneleven.

I tried for exact and fingered abstract. Who knew, sublime poo.