anything can happen anything can go wrong

i don't know how i got here. i used to type fairy tales into scrapbooks on a crap typewriter and drop them into the river by my house. that the way of all good writing. it only needs a second. it does not depend on being read or seen or even thought about. just written. the words that beg borrow steal blackmail their way onto the page because you really didn't have a choice at the start. bukowski said "you don't choose writing, it chooses you." and i wonder how when he figured out that he was a careful pawn to words he probably hated scribbling forth and letting the world know and touch and feel. i wonder if that's how it felt to be him the way it feels to be me. what i wouldn't give or trade away for a night without a pen and lack of desperation to have one, need of one, to not wish i had my taperecorder so it wouldn't be lost i'd hate myself forever. i ahte this goddamned artform. give me back my soul and we'll talk semantics.

2002-09-20 | 7:22 p.m.
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