This being alone thing.

I don’t know. I guess it’s alright. God knows I want to be alone often enough. But this is perhaps too much of a good thing. I don’t know what to do with myself. Don’t feel right. I am trying to just be with it, not fight it or wish for it to be something other than what it is. Trying to learn a little bit about myself when I’m not being reflected through someone else. It’s odd. I feel invisible to myself.

I have to learn to see myself as more than a ghost. As more than a reaction to the outside world. Get corporeal.

With this school thing I’m totally unplugged from my artwork and writing. And I don’t have my camera. I’m not into it now anyway.

I think of myself as an artist, a writer, someone engaged in the wrestling match with the world and the self. Of late I feel like one of the great sleeping masses. Not a spark of an idea in my empty skull, not a bit of heat in my chest.

Not dead, but not quite alive.

I suppose a fallow season is good. Something is resting, something else is getting ready to push up from the dark soil. It’s just that I feel like the dried and dead stalks of last season’s harvest, not the impending new growth.


This polygraph thing has got me pretty creeped out, too.

I can see into a place I shouldn’t be able to.

Of course, the perfect new skill for me. Only reason I became a cop was to watch what you all were doing when no one was looking.


The only poetry I can stand to read lately is Dugan and even Gilbert I find too histrionic. Simic seems like a smart-assed dandy. Collins a wimp. Maybe I’ll go read some of that Loudon woman. She’s pretty tolerable and damaged and anchored in the wild green body.

Anybody else out there?


What do you do when you’re alone?

I mean alone alone.