catching up on my receipts today and feeling wistful, feeling at times like my life is being stared at by an angry god, angry at me for my greedy lack of concomitance, this selfish loner hording himself like he is something special, something that has no need for interactions and giving, giving only to and taking from himself.

all the windows and doors are open here and the wind is blowing like a motherfuck. more serious weather en route.

i feel some kind of success on my horizon. i dont know what it is. financial. personal. historical. starving hysterical naked. i don‘t know, but i take stock in myself and see that i should be trying harder, working more directionfully, liberating the mountains of half-blossomed projects and ideas from the flytraps closing in on them.

i dreamed about my ex 2 nights ago. i find i miss her more than i expected. i miss making her happy. in the dream we were at a hotel, in separate rooms, but she came to visit and we soon landed in bed, fucking, but not before she said she loved me. it felt like something in me was simultaneously vanquished and filled, but i repsonded to her in the dream as i would in reality: nobody loves me. nobody ever has. nobody ever will. no one is allowed. then followed the deep kisses and fucking. the dream rambled on. she had to go meet her sisters somewhere in manhattan and i could not join her, because her sisters never knew i existed, and i could not get my travel bas together in time anyway. i left the hotel and walked along a Brooklyn waterfront, the walkways a mix of dirt road and Interstate with swirling exit ramps conjoining the two types of road. i walked to the end of the Brooklyn waterfront and found myself in a pretentious 1970s cult film which featured big name talented stars but was mostly stuffed with B-List no name fatties hired to be naked, because the stars who had reputations to maintain or who thought they had reputations to maintain would not get naked on screen. i walked in to the closing orgiastic scene of bonfires and virgin sacrifices and felt like nothing was happening. everyone danced and clapped their hands like music was raging but there was no music. there was not even any rage.

…..

i paid rent today, a day early. i overpaid the obnoxiously ill-advised MTA commuter tax. i paid property taxes on the property in Florida. i paid my personal taxes a couple of weeks ago, playing a shell game with that lingering dad money. my goal (referring back to the instinct that some kind of success is on the horizon) is to never touch that money again, or to reach a point at which it looks like chump change. chimp change. monkey money. like that bucket full of coins i once converted into a $1000 mission-style recliner chair, for lack of anything better to do with all that coinage. i have a different relationship with money than most people i know. i hate it. it is almost like garbage to me. to people at whom i have presented the hypothetical scenario a jackpot of $1000 tossed at them by a wealthy billionaire would be a godsend, but to me such a passive tossoff would be a thoughtless insult. then again, i seem to have rising issues with the disproportionately wealthy.

i once found a scrap of paper on which my mother seemed to have begun writing her life story, her testimonial, her statement of self, the Murrow-esque “This I Believe“. i have it somewhere. she said that she was 50-something years old and that financial wealth had passed her by. that was it.