Weeding out the prudes, that’s what the professor of writing was doing the first night of class. Twitching and talking about transgender people and hinting about his own sex and his fuck the establishment “I’ll drop your ass.” Like cursing is so original. It isn’t. It’s been done. What? Then? Are original writing is She How? How then is original writing? We’ve had cummings and Faulkner and Djuna and Dylan. Cobain’s been done and Patti Smith, though defiantly consumable.
Told my dad to read my first published story. Sent him one of my two free copies about a month ago. Last night on the phone I asked, “Did you read it?” And he said, “what, the one from a long time ago?” And I said, “only from December, and it is January,” and he said, “Yeah baby, I saw your name there in the book, very nice,” and I said, “But did you read the story? I wrote it from my mind and through my hand on the computer you bought me.” I can’t see him because he lives a thousand miles from here and doesn’t like to fly, and I’m only a poor student, and have to work at this restaurant for a living, slinging pizza and pitchers of beer.
We can’t will someone to be at a place where we’re going or convince ourselves that we’re compelled by a force to go to a place because a certain person will be there when he’s never been there before, except that once with us, and may never go back– except if he’s pulled by the same force that pulls us on the same afternoon when we never go except rarely and that once when we met him–. He won’t be there, that’s for certain. However much we will it.