Thursday, February 10, 2005

I saw Billy Collins tonight. Saw him, heard him, whatever. He's a poet, he claims, a reasonably good one, it seems, and a remarkably popular one, im told. He tells sort of conversational, plain, transparent english and reads with a desert-dry sarcasm. Pretty funny, kinda thought provoking.

He reminded me of John Cale, in his plainsong voice. The Andy Warhol of poetry. Fantastic... John Cale reminds me that the trouble with reality is,

it's hard to tell what's real. We can't see reality, cant hear it, smell it, taste it, cant even motherfucking touch the motherfucker. I talk in riddles because if i didnt, i might tell the truth to myself and then i would get "a taste of reality" and that would probably suck. The point is, my mind plays tricks on me, i want it to stop.

Nevermind, i want to write. but not to you. its like im starting all over again. im not sure i want to. When i started this blog, it was fresh, exciting, undiscovered territory, and all the blog could think about was itself, and blogging, and everything was potential and nothing was past. I bloody want that again, but i dont have time.

I dont have the time, now isnt the time, cant make the time, time isnt there, time isnt now, no time, maybe some other time.

sure, some other time.

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