This is up here instead of the predictable things I could spit/spin out that go along lines such as Why keep putting words up here at all? Why labor over poems & then refuse to show them to anyone? Why start letters only to shred them up before signing my name to them? What is the point?
Last night bean said she thinks writing-poetry is the easiest writing skill to acquire. I didn't argue with her because I didn't want to show her what I've been writing. This is awful & selfish & prideful. We agreed, though, that playwriting is the hardest. I have no ear for dialogue. I can't even transcribe a conversation faithfully.
The last thing I wrote in my paper journal, in July(!), is this:
Everything swelters. We spend time at the movies & in air-conditioned restaurants. [bean] is, just now, reading out to me the prices of on-sale fruits at Wild Oats.
Any writing I do is worthless with no one to read it.
Then there is just a big picture of Andy stuck in, from the sheet of Andy Warhol postage stamps. Then there is half a bound journal full of nothing. The end of it is Andy staring out, I guess not even staring out: just looking off to the side, two fingers lightly touching his face.
