I am under a spell. Hell demon or well-meaning angel, you caution me: Don't cross the creek on the slippery log., Stay on the farm., and Run when you hear sirens. You devoured my confidence for breakfast and brought limitation into the world. By lunch the hum of summer was behind everything--the humidity, the heat--like the low pulsing of a fuzz guitar before it possesses the world, flirting, fighting and fucking. Meanwhile, there is a willful teen in each garage practicing guitar and the art of being popular. Summer is noisy; it is claustrophobic, even for the sun. The bikers unzip the main drag; black asphault is tanned by the vibrating migraine of these machines, mixed with the song of cicadas, the sizzling grills and the hissing transistor radios. I am waiting to hear a forecast.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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