.: So we all know that I have lost more than a single day, withered as they have become in the shadows of the vast and unsightly MMW. I have been busier since so-called “graduation” than I was ever before, and I profess I do not fully understand it. However, with the exception of a few blinding moments of insanity, I have managed to keep my shit together, and things are inexorably rolling towards their conclusion. Out of touch and off-track, I sink into the canyon and try to find the fur-and-bone remains of the poor squirrels, hunted as they are by our resident hawk. There is a muddy wash at the base of the canyon, filled with the most unimaginable junk, washed there in all the mad rains of the season– it makes me think of my friend Gabriel’s new plan to become a UCSD ascetic and sleep in the canyons behind the Geisel library. In the midst of the campus, his canyon will be no more wild than mine, and I hope he realizes that instead of the hares and hawks he will be most frequently accompanied by rotting paper cups and billowing plastic bags. So it goes.

I drink now the broth of a Thai soup (courtesy of a ramen-like brick of noodles and a safety-pack of spices and oils… how I feel that someone out there is looking out for me, anticipates my needs) and shovel some cous-cous into my mouth and chuckle at the faux-finish of my multi-cultural meal. As an important voice whispers to me, I reflect on my own capacity for self-delusion, and must conclude that it either is nil or so great as to be completely successful, and therefore impervious to the prodding of my meager mind. Then I sip some more broth and dismiss the whole thing anyway, because I think that if my body changes without my active control (as I speak I am getting fatter and I breathe hard when I run too far), so too must my mind. Where’s the mirror for my soul?

My greatest enemy is tedium.

In conclusion, I have been re-reading one of my favorite comics Cages by Dave Mckean; it is hard, I want my work to look so much like his, and that isn’t common for me. But it puts me on the right track… I got to step outside. I mean it, I know it, I have been reminded of it, and I will do it.

I know this makes little sense. That’s not writing, that’s typing, as Mr. Capote might say; so be it. I am the monkey, pounding on the keys, and I promise you I will do it until Shakespeare emerges.

Goodnight.