already i have been trying to live that life/time as productivity equation. ambition ambition bitionbitch. it seems ironic in light of thesis topic. haha. i wonder if they will be able to glean, from my footnotes or from my bibliography or from the sly tone of my introduction, that I am Quentin Compson, or at least his shadow, trembling in the water with the flat irons rising through it.

stopped wearing a watch long ago, but it doesnt stop time. signifier/signified.

agenbite of inwit. i know what it means. thats all ive got to say.

Babelterror. Have I mentioned on here that I have come to be afraid of books. Not books so much, book shops. That Gleebooks sale, with all the piled tables of miscellany, no order to it, just covers and prices, piles of covers and prices. None of it to get a grip on, nothing there I'd read already, no time to do anything with it all, just stare in blank horror, mocked. Can never do. Can never do. Why try.

Sometimes I write like the last thing I read. No. Sometimes I _think_ like the last thing I read.

*

I didn't mention my first day back at uni. I laughed out loud in class, I couldn't help it. Not many looked. I tried to explain it to Is. I said "I was just sitting there listening about Donne and England, and I thought, all the ideas, all these ideas, Shakespeare, hahaha" and I was laughing in front of everyone into space. She said she hadn't even heard. And in the Epic class, I was sitting there feeling pent up like with all the copia of words, energy, like I had to start screaming and shouting things, something specific but as yet inarticulate, something that would become meaningful as I uttered it, my lips crying like Cassandra, my mind left behind. A funny static feeling sitting there, maybe like I was going to start wavering in and out of existence. And I can never tackle it all. There's too too too too much.

And so much distaction. HH/AK. My addiction to sound editing. Making video clip. Late nights, late nights. My father is in America. The new pup. Writing, writing. I just want to keep writing, I don't want to have to read anything. To have a monovocal existence for a while. Not a sound but me. Yes, yes. Bliss.

That is life. A hand closed around nothing.

*

Eminence.
I think I want to reach the point where I can truly say
"I am not used to explaining. I am used to being explained."

I wrote that on here once, and I don't think I knew what it meant.

*

After sort of, remembering the existence of Joyce, I went for two days having the words 'But I, entelechy, form of forms. Am I by memory because under everchanging forms.' And variations thereon, because I cant remember the exact wording. e.g. "am I by memory because present under everchanging forms."

Already the copia of impending (already behind) honours year reading swamps up before me like that red clay hill in the story I wrote once, Wally, which wants to slubber down over the house like a tongue, drowning it.

Those ball rooms that they put children in, rooms full of coloured plastic balls, where you dissapear. I have the sense that that is what life was supposed to be like. I think we have got it all wrong and we should be descending, drowning all, in coloured plastic spheres. Laughing and sinking and waiting for our parents to come back, even as we forget who they ever were.

Last night my mother gave me one of those chocolates with a capsule with a toy you assemble inside, and when I opened it, it was the extinct animals series. Forgotten friends, or something. '30 wonderful extinct animals to collect.' Over the years, it said, thousands of wonderful and amazing animals have dissapeared forever... at this statement of irretrievable loss, I burst into tears at the table, then and there. I tried to explain to them about the effect of the word 'storybook' on my fragile sentimentalpsyche. I started raving about the catcher in the rye, how he doesn't want the children to walk off the cliff, and I was trying to explain what he meant, and I could hear my voice choking up. Then I thought about that green and yellow squid my father bought the cereal just to get the toy because when he was an only child that was what he used to do, before my mother through them out on the sly, that was what he had kept from being a kid, his little box of cereal creatures that have been thrown out now, and he still does it, buys the cereal for the toy. But that wasnt what made my heart break when I saw the squid, it was the squid itself, with its placid look of sweet inoffensive innocence and its unknowing happy green that reminded me that the minute dial is always pointed at loss and the betrayal of dreams and expectations and yet there was the squid with its tiny smile so unbelievably beautiful, i cant see it without crying, I cant see storybook. If I have children they will be fuckedup digitised atomised fucking genetically modified boneless freaks who hate hate hate me.