—————Constantly, my most constant
Piece of advice was this, headlong in praise–
To sit down in the wreckage; but no, you
Never cleared the space . . . (The Modern Epoch)

——-The pipsqueak piper, in a present fit says, mix it up. Somebody left a cement mixer (if that is what that is) blocking the sidewalk, just one house up. Analogously, scheduled entries are now completely hampered by imaginary readers, who are lining up in my imagination (where else?) and reacting to what is there from the very first sentence. Apparently I live for paradox and confusion. What a horrible condition this is I suffer, to have an ill-defined mandate, to which pride can only say: not now, I am having lunch. At lunch, in one of those old-fashioned luncheonettes, there is still a jukebox. As I walk over there I am thinking, “I must be suffering something like . . . readers block.”
——-There is no way to verify with any accuracy the estimation in which I am held by my readers, who must be outraged even at the suggestion that I see them spying on me; but just saying that I should forget about it is well-nigh impossible–for I have reader disease. It is like I have the constant worry I left the car lights on, and have to go downstairs and look out the front window to see that, no, the car is dark, the whole street is dark– no, there is one man walking towards me with his head bowed. I have reader alert radar, and the moon is outside my window at night (another scenario); this moon in March is equivalent to a watchdog with the sappy face of all hungry readers. I am eaten up by their envy, and their accusations that I have taken all the language into my corner and am counting it like it were my money. But I cannot control my imagination in this matter, and that of course is what I get for having schooled my imagination to open itself to all unfounded, boundless fears, and deep pangs for time passed, and emotional trippings that show I don’t care about time passed, really, in my occupation-less life, in my epic, or rather momentary struggle, where I get the content of the writing to begin with. I mean, Lord, this is where I get the content of my writing to begin with. This very same dilemma, the same quarrel with this insatiable reader!
——-Aha! Having long ago decided upon the basis of incontrovertible evidence to go with ho-hum ordinary life as the truth, and not like most people some zany philosophical project that would result in mere experimental daydreams–and therefore never been rewarded and landed in a job in some advertising agency . . . Aha! And my method of composition, more and more as this reliance upon life being my source, being to listen for the fattest words, the straggling words, the looking-about words, like misplaced from the past words, associated with any theme popping in my head . . . yes, well the net result of this is to be pierced by intense revelatory vocabulary, and grammatical originality that denounces plot, you see. So I can’t even write a book anymore, no lacksadaisical novels in my wily mind, but I am in a constant crisis, my awareness lit up all the time, and therefore, you see, am I stymied on practically an hourly basis–oh, at least an hourly basis, sometimes I twirl within ten minutes in the throes of the exact present circumstances of that parallel life I drag along.
——-Knock me out. It isn’t that you can distinquish the original from the mass of plain ideas, but that everything is original, for you have a Midas touch. The more tendered, it just adds to the quantity of your always qualitative judgements. And I do mean, judgements. This plowing understanding is itself an example, part of the inescapable series of reflections, always busy with the differences. Tortured! Just so, with feeling yet to be disgorged, from its soul’s habitat. However, having now achieved a speaking voice, one hears a kind of low agonized growl, or maybe a high pitched sound that says “eeks”. Put another nickel in the jukebox. Oh my God! Look at how many selections there are on this jukebox! Somebody is in business.

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