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12:12 p.m. - February 23, 2004
I'm in a hole.

To say Non-Descript is on hiatus is pretentious, over-weening, and illogical: Hiatus implies future confluence, a meaningful pause in the normal flow of expectation.

My sleep patterns are off again and I write poetry - good stuff, too - and contact of air on eyeballs painful.

It isn't pushing people away; it is coming full circle to Repeat and Replay and it is odious to me.

This is melodrama. The unnecessary and uninvited handwringing, a piteous rasp from within a blanket, mawkish inducements of merry cheer fueling a spastic reconnect. I have nothing new to say, the needle is poised again in familiar territory, a coming home for the homing pigeon. Homing pigeons are extinct now.

To quit Non-Descript, not to quit; to transpose, print archives, delete, wither away? Set up a new website where I can tell the same secrets? Unpalatable. Slip'nslide.

I feign ontopofitness for the presentations in Boston a few days away.

I've taken this week and next week off.

I like Chris, am attracted to him. But being near him, talking or driving with him, makes me feel - bad. He has most things together, is grounded and drama-free, and I am the visiting country bumpkin with black spots on my teeth, the smell of manure not just on my boots. And Ryan II, I am angry with myself for increasing the number of men with whom I've been intimate for no reason, no solidity of purpose other than selfish gratification, a new tally in the column titled Urgent Praxis, as if I'm running out of time and seek to cross the finish line into some great Eden.

I pull away when people begin to perceive the caulk and chipped paint beneath, throw on a new coat and deny having been gone - just busy, busy, you know me. I am not busy, I am slow.


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