I’m listening to these Philip Glass solo piano pieces and they are dragging me into some kind of melancholy, Melancholy so much different then depression. It’s cold outside now and everything smells so fresh. I’m drifting into that sweet comfort of a low mood. But then that would make a nice composition and there are no real compositions in the world only disconnections only non-connecting things stuck all over. No god no composition no reason only death and if you don’t think so you don’t think. There is no sureness about anything and yet the music is there and the mood is set.
Glass is so repetitive and that’s what you get with modern classical music. It’s not all atonal like Schoenberg or conceptual like Cage it’s just so pretty and distant and cold. I feel myself spread out to the trees and there leaves are gone and there is no one outside and no snow to muffle all the bare earth. I”m going not anywhere.
All the films are done speaking to me and all the novels are silent. I can’t believe— I just smacked the fucking dogs in the other room. Those barking mewling annoying animals. I just don’t seem to want them.
I guess I don’t want my kids either. I’m not gonna do anything but eat all my pain and let it go into the toilet. A complete waste. a lost animal out on the road waiting to get hit.
One second to the end. Here it is and then
and then I grab that bottle and start to suck it down and there is so much warmth in being.
The difference is in the motivation.
I don’t really have one and I don’t not have one. NO I
am not resigned
but then I am not filled with desire for anything. My life has become a collage of newspaper articles, pictures from magazines various snatches of meaningless drivel.
I could lie on my back with you and point up at the stars.
I could point out the satellites but I couldn’t talk and I couldn’t feel
I can’t bring it here