Futile Horn

05.12.2004 - 4:29 am (the old town)

I don’t think I’ve updated this thing for more than three months, but I’ve just finished a bottle of wine and I’ve nothing to put my cock into, so I thought I’d give the old journal a try. I’ve been mad at myself for not writing more, but I’ve been writing all the time, only lyrics for songs -- which to me has become both more natural and more profane than prose. Last week I spent five or six hours rediscovering the city I live in (every time I think I know it all I go out and it feels a little bigger) scribbling down lines on street corners as they come to me. I think, hey I’m living the live. Not the good life, but the life some people think they want. I was happy, but the kind of happy that you know is fleeting, so it’s really a kind of sad. But the kind of happy that seems it might be lasting is contentment, which somewhere along the line I’ve been taught to loathe. Contentment means middle class life as a sit-com, trading virtue for comfort, liberty for convenience as that German fellow said. You need the devil to get past that, and although the devil doesn’t mean evil, he does mean misery. I feel to be motivated means to be dissatisfied. So sometimes I let anger eat away at me, because even though it kills me, without it I feel I am already dead.

That night I stopped in a Ukrainian diner that I had always eyed with a bit of contempt but for some reason when I went inside and sat down at the counter, it felt like coming home. And when I left, like any other place I call home, I felt the need to stay away from it until I could no longer tolerate its absence any more.

That tavern where my paranoia (which I can’t always tell apart from my perceptiveness) convinced me the bartenders were trying to convince me to leave with their eyes… that place I’ll probably go back to tomorrow.

The world is too lonely for me to tolerate anymore, but often I find the company even worse. I don’t know what to do. It’s been like this for about eight years now.

I suppose trying to sleep wouldn’t be the worst decision I could make about now.

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn