i wonder how many people watching The History Boys could identify with both Posner and Daikin (sp?). I think I may have.

*

was in men's section of myer underwear with marc yesterday (regrettably). found strange pair of boxer-briefs that cost about $200 dollars, said all over them "Dolce Gabbana you know you want it" [actually it was another brand but i've forgotten] "Dolce Gabbana you know you want it" "Dolce Gabbana you know you want it" "Dolce Gabbana you know you want it" "Dolce Gabbana you know you want it" "Dolce Gabbana you know you want it" in crossing over type, and hidden in amongst it all, where the unsuspecting sucked in brand-hyped buyer would not notice it, was the line:

"Crotch - you know you want it."

The Gowings store has closed and become a giant Supre. It kills me.

I feel better suddenly, but just before I wrote in an email that I was not happy right now even though I number amongst those who have absolutely no right to feel down considering their overprivileges, however that underlying guilt is of course the floor of woe & social malaise, underneath, perhaps, in it? i mean, when you rip up the carpet of neurosis...

*

Meeting a writer would, i suspect, be trying, and deflating, and daunting, and ultimately harmful to the soul. i may be wrong. I've read accounts of people meeting auden and, apart from those who actually ended up human on his faithless arm, they seemed to find the experience intimidating, and fall-shorting, in terms of wanting something to cross between that coudn't, despite their sence of his greatness in person.

Perhaps it was just an interview with one person. One person's account. There were certainly no accounts from lovers. Who knows, maybe the account was Alan Bennet's own? My mind seive-like, sometimes - surprisingly.

i scraped the soul down off the sides of my skull
where it was stuck like peeled paint or bathtub plaque
around the warm, unhaunted, darkened NUMB.
i tried to pack the flakes down into a wad
but the crumbs would not cohere
it was damp, and dry, and disparate.
like a teenager with the house to himself for the week,
the water smiled.

[what is wrong with me? what was wrong with me yesterday? crying, crying. i have no right to be like this, none. i'm provided for. maybe that's it. guilt, on top of the rest. i have no right to ask the question what is wrong with me. there are real things wrong. sickup emotional sickup. why self-focussing? because it's frightening to focus on anything else right now. i should be shot. my hair is falling out]