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1:33 p.m. - September 10, 2003
Long-winded much like explanations on quantum physics that boil down to an emphatic 'We know we don't know what we know so perhaps superstring theory works after all.'
Feeling restless.

I cannot vote for Arnold. I refuse to vote for Bustamante. Sit out this election? Is a non-vote a vote for Davis? All this talk about right-wing Republicans seizing California bore me. Whether it's Dems or Reps, we're all screwed constantly unless you're wealthy and I for one am quite tired of uber-rich liberals protesting tax cuts: If you felt so burdened by your wealth, give it away and live like the rest of us, eh? Hypocrites, slanderers, sheep-in-drag, the whole bunch.

Come, let us hasten the fall of the millennial Rome by buying jelly beans and filling potholes with them.


My sister knows somehow. She came by yesterday to lend DVDs - as if I watch movies - and mentioned she brought along Lawrence of Arabia. I gave her a funny look and she said Isn't that a cult classic for guys like you? and I feigned hard-of-hearingness and she didn't repeat herself.


Is it irrational to think perhaps Spec told her, making good on his taunts? Would she say anything directly? It is my provenance to tell instead of being assaulted with I-already-knews. I worry too much.


All afternoon I waited for Barbara-the-Editor's call. I just now realized today is Wednesday and not Thursday.


Constantly misinterpreting people's intentions towards me. Allowing people in to varying degrees provokes frustration. I struggle to disinguish between interest, apathy, malevolence, and meaning one thing but saying another due to propriety.

I wonder why I should care.


I wrote a new poem last night. If I were to post it here, would I be joining the ranks of these countless other poetry writers on Diaryland? At what point can I say I'm a real writer and not be either pompous or severely misguided?

A brief C.V:

- In 1990 my first poem published.

- In 1992 I won a poetry prize.

- In 1994 I won another poetry prize.

- In 1997 I was the editor in chief of a literary journal.

- In 1998 my chapbook (425 copies) was released. Sold out either because it was good or because it was cheap.

- In 1998 two poems published in a national journal.

- Also in 1998, four poems published in two other, lesser-known journals.

- In 1999, seven poems anthologized, and not in a you-pay-us-to-publish format.

- In 2002, signed contract providing for the writing of six books.

- In 2002, two poems published.

- In 2003, gay erotica unleashed.

This is rapidly becoming a Talk Back exercise wherein my natural inclination to dismiss achievements and issue blanket pronouncements of mediocrity should be challenged by facts. Am I a writer simply because I've published? Can one who writes a less-than-inspiring journal be called a writer when there are many journals out there that are simply dazzling?

Why do I even bother with this?

I would exchange it all to taste what I desire.


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