Displacement is unforgiveable. All I can think about is the distance from my love, the lies I tell to make my isolation greater, and a growing emptiness engulfing me. If I lose Vesna, which is a possibility, I think I’ll become a hermit. She told me herself that she feels she could never love again – ie, if we split up, she could never be with anyone else.
She feels like loving solitude, much like me.
This similarity, along with so many others I have with her, is staggeringly dumbfounding. Sad, stupid country music yawdles from speakers near to this dreadful McDonalds next to the Intercontinental Hotel. No phone, no contact, freedom, bliss?
Psychological exile encroaches like an unstoppable horde or plague. I miss Vanja and his steadfast manliness, belief in himself, and all that fucked up jive. Soon, he shall be my roomie. Him, my guitar, and, of course, solitude.
Dancing seems ridiculous to me.
I pen hidden truths
Stiff pages suck at my ink
And leakage threatens
Girls in santa hats
With unapproachable laps
Xmas illusion
Experiments that
Come on baby, light my fire
Failed too many times
Blue-black blood, red wine
Stumbling, drunken leukocytes
Forget the way home
I fuck the deaf girl
Lies or truth: to her, the same
From whispering lips
Insipid, important, plaintive night at SMOKE in NY – the Upper West Side – filled with nostalgia and emptiness. This pseudo funk / jazz band plays cannot read this word as John, Nataša and I listen, detached but together in a strange synergy that transcends the alienation of another night unhinged.
By unhinged, I mean detached (displaced?) from ever part of our former lives. Except John, of course, who is the status quo at such events – and even a status quo in my life in general – a base to BASE my ambitious and eccentricities on. Why not? My handwriting, appalling, berieves the enjoyment of this script. Sigh.
