That want to attack me over email, or some flimsy group email address: know what you are doing. You are inciting a figure of the pen that you, of all “artists,” certainly can’t bend. I didn’t respond to you because your wording reveals the lunatic, and barely mediocre scribe, you embody. Tired of typing my qualm. So, if we ever each other encounter, I’ll introduce you to the nucleus of my acrimony. Your assemblage is worthless, not sure why I ever had curiosity in its rumored merit. This entry, the first stage of an unraveling of rage.
Shots ring. Stillness, what the clots bring. You’re prehistoric.
Me, phantasmagoric. Old-timers like you abhor it. Store clips
for the day the bubble bursts. Was balanced, but now
I have a troubled thirst. More letters like that,
you and your pages’ll be burnt.
9:33p. Been edgy lately. This is something I could truly without do. The Room today, stale like mass crackers. Tonight, not eloquent, laconic. Need to walk away from this sitting before it becomes any more polluted. Reconsidering much this eve, how I approach this log, my audience, the whole concept of an audience. And on that note, no reader should respect me if I’m writing for the sole sake of appeasing an audience. I want to be acknowledged, and yes respected, for steadying Self in my vision, detailing my days. No more muffling of Self.
The path, brief at best. Me savoring all steps. I remember what Emerson wrote: “Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.” A dance I’ll embrace. Patterns, ugly. Commotion, gorgeous. Tomorrow, with a day off from the Room (thanks to George), plans cement, crystalize. I’m never going to be the pseudo-author, like the puppet who swung at me. Mayweather of the pen, me.