Journal #04.22.15

I cannot stand the sand and how I sink, I have to think and quick or drink the gristly whole wheat farina. All the condiments in the world cannot sweeten the blackheart taste of life that chases me like a demon through both day and night. The way my mind goes wrong on me, envisioning the whole world a few thousand years from now forgetting all of us. We cannot hope to be remembered. So come the tears and sighs and vexations as I rage against my mind. I take an ink-drained ballpoint to the box in my living room. Fifty of my books ready to be signed and sent back out in four directions. Then I fall asleep and dream I am rescuing people from a plane crash. The plane has landed on its belly just outside my door, in a park. It is sitting there steaming, and me and about a half dozen witnesses go about cautiously approaching with the hopes to be helpful. Finally I am inside the plane where all is silent and everyone is alive and belted in and breathing. But all of them are in such a deep stage of shock, they neither move nor speak. I am told we must await the coming out of shock. And I awaken from my own long deep sleep and the creeping thought again of being ultimately forgotten comes pushing into my moment. And gets me to get up. Terror motivates. I confess I want to write a number of bestsellers to guarantee my place in the pantheon of beloved authors who will be remembered for a hundred years or more. From there I can go for half a millenium? I cannot seem to help myself with dead end thinking.

cats guard shipment of books

Ovid 43BC-17AD laughs in my face.
Stilpo 360-280BC spits coffee all over his shirt.
Archimedes 287-212BC high-fives Plutarch 45-120AD.
Thales 624-556BC gives me the most charitable smile.
Solon 6--? - 558BC holds a lottery for anyone who can guess his birthday.

I think I must go. Feed my cats
come out of shock and
forget myself.