"--and animal lust."

That was Te talking about Alex Krycek, years ago-- but I'm hearing it in my head alot lately. when I'm, like, lacing up my shoes or looking for cereal, or I see myself in the corner of my rearview mirror. High good humor and animal lust.

I've stopped chewing my nails. I don't know why-- I never wanted to stop, I enjoy chewing my nails. but, I have stopped and I'm tempted to see how long I can go. wouldn't it be awful, though, if I stopped forever, and years down the road I try to pick it up again, and I can't?

like eating snot, when I was a little girl. It was my major pasttime, but everyone always told me it was gross and unhealthy, and so I thought I'd give it up just to see if I could. Years later, I realized, oh, I'm grown up now, I can do whatever I want. and I considered, you know, picking up the habit again, and then thought, ummm. no-- no, I don't think I will.

These little things worry me, you know. it's such a time of change; I feel like I have to keep track of them all.

speaking of change.

Dustin came over last night, looking for the right way to do things, and I told him there is no right way to do things, which is probably a useless thing to say. but he also got some couscous out of the visit, and, let me tell you.

Couscous will always, always do you more good than questioning your existence.

People will try and tell you that life is hard, and that's bullshit. Learning choreography is hard. Being comfortable is hard; especially in America, where there's this pioneer myth of The One Thing You're Missing.

I figure that life is about . . forty percent mindless familiarity. get up, do this, sun means warm, warm means food, the thigh bone's connected to the hip bone; instinct, survival, you don't even think about it.

Thirty percent of it is the uncomfortable part, that we interpret as hard. People go away, and nobody understands you, and you can't do this and this, and nothing adds up to anything.

and the remaining thirty percent is . . high good humor and animal lust.

That's why I declined to defend Jack Kerouac to Lise, even though I'd defended him earlier that day to Richard the Taoist. because that would've been my defense-- "there are no wrong answers"-- and that could just as well have been her response to me.

there's, um. I sent a poem to Lise a few weeks back, but, y'know, she has so many e-mail addresses, it's impossible to keep up. so, who knows where it's gone. But I thought about it last night, feeding couscous to Dustin.

.

sick of talk
is my only problem
with this.
sick of talk.
want to drive.
That's the mean in me,
when you see it.
I think,
'too wise, child-- you're too wise child,
go back
to knowin nothing.'

all we can think
is going out but in our inside head
stomachs we're already been out there
and come back loved it and it
died at the end of the movie
the movie we loved and quoted and
continue to recommend.
You're supposed to die or vanish in
blue heaven smoke when you feel
everything
at once supposed to sink your feet
into sticky cola carpet floor and
walk out
of the theatre.

but living room, baby.
fuckin eternity place.

ignorance is not bliss it's only
loud This is bliss;
digging in the red pulpy euphoria
of hallelujah hallelujah but
I want to drive
and I can't escape the feeling
I done been out there
and come back.

.

--A