Where to begin after the last few days… I’ve been feeling good. Calm. Serene, even. It’s the kind of calm I usually only feel after a long day’s work. I can write again, which has been a problem. I am seeing things, too. Things in the distance. Windows. I like looking at large buildings with hundreds of windows. Every single one is a possibility. I wrote a poem about a window I saw from the Trump Tower, a window into a building across the street. There was something decorative in that window. A red plastic horse. It would be largely invisible to anyone on the street but seen by Trump Tower residents and occupants of other nearby buildings. I imagined non-residents of 432 Park putting up tiny Christmas lights and seasonal decorations in the windows of their 90th floor penthouse suites, decorations that absolutely nobody could see.

Had a revelation of sorts about my philosophy of inexistence, of nonexistence. I think I know where it comes from. I have never pursued the theory of nonexistence with any real guts. I do not believe I exist. I have compromised this belief up until now with the safer notion that I am actually here, but that I am invisible. Nobody can see me.

I think I know now where this comes from. My parent’s did not love each other. I don’t think they ever did. I never saw any manifestation of love. I don’t even remember birthday gifts. Never any physical affection save for one conspicuously uncomfortable incident where mother tried to hug and kiss dad. I don’t remember what caused that to occur but it was like he was running away from her. He was at least laughing and smiling. I don’t think they married for love or for reasons that reach beyond cultural expectations of the day. Marrying a military man probably suited her desires for travel and financial security, though none could have known in those days that virtually all military weddings would end in divorce.

When I learned my father was gay I remembered, too, that my mother wished she had been. Her admiration for Martina Navratilova was one of those things I did not think about until years later. She considered militant feminism to be a form of society correcting itself, no matter the collateral damage. I remember the term “militant feminism” as a 1980s term that eventually became neutered and trivialized by Limbaugh’s “feminazi”. My mother used the term “militant feminism” often, saying it was justified. To an extent I think she had a point, until she claimed the assassination of Andy Warhol was justified. At the time I knew nothing of SCUM (Society for Cutting Up Men) or the deranged woman’s motives for killing Warhol. I think my mother was resentful of Warhol’s orgies, though it has been said many times that he did not participate and that he may have been asexual. What she really resented was his fame. (I hate to say it but Rolling Stone magazine may have been on to something when they crowned Kim Kardashian the Andy Warhol of our time.)

I have to piece together the clues to my mother’s latent lesbianism. With my father the case is closed. I found cocksucking videos and women’s underpants in his dresser drawers. That discovery made his stilted flamboyances make sense. He was gay. I know.

My parents did not love each other.
They were not innately inclined to procreate.
Why am I even here?

…

I found God in a payphone today. I found PRAY. I did not even realize it until i got home and looked at the pictures. At the Queens Zoo sits a miserable, abandoned Verizon payphone. Etched into its steel face are the words … er, I can’t remember what those words were now but something like “LOVE JESUS”. It looks like authentic PRAY scratchitti. It could be an imitator. PRAY tended toward more angular lettering. This looked positively nuanced.

…

At Prospect Park yesterday I met something I do not think I have seen since summer camp: a bucket full of shit. Human feces. It looked like the turds of 5 or 6 humans all complaining amongst themselves, struggling for attention. How often do they empty those portolet things at Prospect Park? More to the point: how many people come to Prospect Park to defecate into their portable toilets? It looks like half of Brooklyn can’t wait to take a dump and they can’t even make it to the more hospitable shitter climes of Prospect Park’s numerous covered bathrooms. It reminded me of the book “Alive”, where the soccer/futbol team gets stranded in the Andes and cannibalizes its dead. In that book it was not revealed until the end that they were within walking distance of a hotel/resort where they could have found quick relief to their situation. Do the visitors of Prospect Park not know that civilized facilities for taking a shit are situated throughout the grounds, within minutes walking distance of these horrendous portable shit pits?

…

I am going to tell the therapist tomorrow that I do not like myself. I am lazy. I am fat. She will tell me I am not fat. I will iterate that I am fat. She will not dispute that I am lazy.

Every day I feel the avalanche of shit accumulate.