let me give it up for katsumi, who shoveled my car out this morning while I slept the sleep of the dead. last night we watched Star Trek until probably 2AM and I drank wine, which always makes me good and tired. Moving ever further back in time, to before the Star Trek-fest, The Boy went downstairs to fuck with the wireless connection and I spent some time reading my old journals. ALWAYS risky business.
I have been keeping journals since I was, oh, 8 years old, and at the peak of my writing I would go through 3 notebooks a year. Those were troubled times, let me tell you. the upside of journaling your life is that forevermore you have a record of your emotional existence, so it’s harder to completely lose touch with who you were and who you hoped to become. The downside, of course, is the total ego-crushing discomfiture that comes with reading old, bad poetry.
a circular box
no way out
i lay silent
and wait for the end**
i mean, really. come on.
Just goes to show that no matter how cool you think you are, you are always lame. and if you get older and feel lame, it sure is heartening to go back and read the worst of the wost and think “well, fuck, I may be old and crotchety and consider Star Trek and wine to be a ‘wild night’, but at least i got that bad poetry phase out of my system!”
** note: this is only an approximation of the old bad poetry. The actual old bad poetry is even worse than that and if i actually put it up on the internet I would have to atone with ceremonial seppuku. and I don’t really want to go there.
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