But this year the tree pollen is very high, by all counts, and at the same time, grass pollen, and from my walk of ten blocks or so in the night, to the Safeway on 17th Street, I sleep and sleep and rest all day, and even into the night, not moving.

There are dreams.  Dreams of being on a date with a girlfriend, but the place I've chosen to locate a home and all my stuff in an abandoned woody place by the river and the road which climbs through the woods, and then there is a court procedure of law, in which old faces I have worked for in the past  come out more to accuse me than to allow that I was just looking for somewhere to put guitars and books and kitchen stuff and things...  I would try to talk, but the procedural mood and the mood of the antagonists will only allow so much, and they have already taken hold of my things.

I wake, blearily and tired.  It's two in the morning.  Looking at my Facebook feed, something from the New York Times, about how people who suffered as children with anger and violence of parents see anger in many forms of approach.  Is this, the childhood, why I have to say, always compensating, X, I'm not angry at you, I'm just trying to help you.  Let's throw some of this stuff out so we can see better what we have...

I am thirsty.  And hungry in a lazy way.  To cook means more dishes, and the potential for more of the large water bugs to appear on kitchen counters...  And why does the thought of even having a girlfriend fade so far away and it is pollen season and I feel like hell.

No wonder, then, that some of us, Irish, or what have you, Zydeco, would become musicians...  To play songs to soothe mothers who've gone crazy, who do not respond in normal easy ways, thank you dear...  We are made sad, right out of the gate, to begin with.  And if we cannot catch the tide of youthful optimism of our college days brethren, if we go out on our own into the desert, there is not much of conventional happiness to keep us, to keep us sane and happy and well-fed.

The head is swimming in this plant confusion, a thick layer in between us and what we see.

I can see why Shane MacGowan sings, why Jack Kerouac writes...  The traumas passed down, traumas steeled into you, and this is why Kerouac's picture of Naval induction holds such terrible spirituality, from seeing Little Gerard die, and his father's printing shop wiped away by the Merrimac flood...  Leo's slow death...  The real shit of life.  Craziness.

And who in such a spot wouldn't fear work, but that it keeps us busy and keeps us amongst other people as crazy as ourselves.  The choices we would make then, to liberate work into a free tribal acceptance, that we who have gathered are not the sane ones striving in their material security of suburb and enclave of the well-to-do and the rising to it.  But we are the poor the diaspora, trying to fit in, but who find, once we accumulate a small modest body of material goods, as instructed to by the mass culture, that we cannot afford to keep them, that we cannot not even find a place for ourselves that will last us into old age.

(And to me, this is why we need some form of social housing, some form of balance, that menial workers who are poor can live amongst society as a whole, such as society strives and earns compensations thousands of times multiplied...)


Most people can assume the hamburger the thing to eat, whole with its bun, or with the spaghetti along with the meatballs, or the pizza, the toppings along with the filling crust.  And yet, I cannot.  Not without a belly gross and full, puffed and bloated, a spare tire around the midsection.  Why is this?