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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the                                             spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed                                          mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-11-09, 2:27 a.m.

drivel .001

               a sudden bizarre passion for billy joel.

on the radio this afternoon, half in-and-out of consciousness, all the sudden. and he likes to be known as the angry young man - i write it down quickly on a post-it and fold it up in my pocket.

the eclipse was mostly notable. it wasn't as nice as i'd hoped, but it didn't exactly inspire me to do anything in particular. god, why have i not encountered billy joel before? darlin', i don't know why i go to extremes // and if i stand or i fall, it's all or nothing at all - great. maybe it's just the night. the fact that the corner of the window is half-lit by the lampposts outside.

struck by a sudden lust to go sailing. or to go on a ferry somewhere. thick ropes & rusting anchours. peeling paint on the keel of the boat, plunging up and down in the waves, gulping in air before -

i walked through shifty, sad and crisped leaves tonight, looking up at the blotchy moon, whispering lines to myself - "do not go gentle into that good night - mr. moon" i added tripsically to myself the next moment, a cross between whimsy and admonishment.

left to my own devices. right now i wish my to-do list was clean, wiped with a divine papertowel,

more to add? maybe later. scattered shatterthoughts tonight. fingers truculent, reluctancy to type anything of worth. maybe tonight would be a good night to begin work on my play -

i will start titling these pointless entries "drivel .001" or something so you know to skip them. they're not very interesting.

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ŠSEH