"temporary Cobain"
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april 1st
I found a rotten posting for March 30th under my bunk...did I send a different version?...I'm throwing this away. It speaks of writing to Oslo for the translation of, "I'm a person who needs cheap excitement...that's all I am". I've been deeply depressed and exhausted and have very little memory of what I write anymore. Newsflash: Michael Murphy, the mortician who removed JBR from the morgue and otherwise dealt with her remains at Crist mortuary has apparently left Crist and begun his own business. We only worked a half day today due to Deputy Bill Weiss hurting his knee.It's a beautiful rainy spring afternoon. Everyone is in a fairly good mood, except maybe the child molester who was WHISPERED right out of this pod yesterday. (A different person from the "baby killers" I mentioned yesterday). Back, back in time, before les crime... The place I had at Market and Laguna in San Francisco has since been turned into an AIDS hospice. There was a bar below it called les Drunk Tank. It was one of about five bars popular with bicycle messengers. Heavy vomit splotches to be found there, let me tell you. But this place was closed by the city during my time. Mostly all I did was get up, do endless hours of frantic biking up and down les hills (coteaus) and then come home with a tall six pack. I would rot stunned in front of the television,liquidly erasing a very empty and tiring day. I never made any friends there. It seems to me there is a FALSE free and easy (sans genie) spirit there that I never got in les groove with. After my first tall six pack I'd go downstairs to the Arab market and get another one. Since on the way up from this second journey I would be unencumbered by my bike,I'd check my mailbox. I suppose it's signifigant that I had a lot of inmate pen pals at this point. Why, it was my chief personne to personne method of socializing.If it wasn't for work I'd have been a shut-in. And work itself was nothing more than blurry wheeled ghosthood. With the fuel of my second six pack I drearily hacked away at an election hemed project that seemed to capture no imaginations but my own. Of course, it was 1996 and the contest between Bob Dole and Bill Clinton wasn't exactly waking the dead...not even to vote. This project had many complicated wings to it and it's ultimate failure...a whole year wasted...left me utterly depleted after the election. I bet it wasn't more than a week before I picked up the phone and ordered my train ticket. And by doing THAT I was conciously acknowledging desperation. And in my view that is waht we gather under this internet umbrella to talk about. Bit by bit...the gnawing hacking desperation. There is a psycologist in Paris by the name of JENNIFER TURMINEL. She comes floating to mind today via a newspaper article which depicts her telling MONICA LEWINSKY yesterday at a Paris bookstore that she's "the model for modern womanhood". Oh, if only we could get such a MENTAL professional to go back in time and examine my "tired blood" as I waited to board my train to the North, as I waited for my ticket in the mail slot, and as I read my letters from inmates.The thing that kills me is that the condition I mean to describe, which I call "temporary Cobain", MUST surely be known to les QUACKS and GENARMES of les Monde. current | 1999 | 1998 | colfax diaries |