Diary Entry #I don’t know (10,000-something?)
I can’t write about this. Because *. When is the
last time this happened? Perhaps when i took a
Xanax and went dancing with a massive box of
overcrowded straight people (that’s my judgment,
as well-educated as it is or isn’t; an indication for
you to judge me, okay?). I’m rereading Pet Sounds.
This is relevant only because it’s what’s happening.
I want to accrue diaries again; write them; read
them. I wrote a piece a few days ago to put in
mine, which for years has been electronic, an “app”
that I never add to, but one that automatically,
inserts all of my so-called social media posts in
to it. Mostly from Twitter and my Anachronizms
blog. As I post them (boom!). I only ever tweet
to tout, to advertise, to, what did that guy on
Facebook call it yesterday, to self-promote. “I
haven’t self-promoted in a few weeks,” he noted, “so
[and here he inserted a self-promotion].” To which
my initial reaction is to at least verbalize the word
retch. But why? And isn’t that just utterly ridiculous?
All I do on Twitter, yes, I said this, is self-promotion;
and I’m thinking of this because it was that which in
me produced such an eye-rolling from me as I read it
yesterday. And then if you ask me if market my work,
if I do marketing, if I “self-promote,” I am more than
pleased to proclaim that I do. Isn’t that just pride? And
the joy of running a little magazine (in case you’re not
aware, it’s called SHAMPOO – and you can find it at
shampoo-poetry.com, which is not the original URL,
but that one I WILL get back, eventually, I swear.
That very slow, almost interminable, yet all-too-
swift thing called time, said as if it were nothing
but a censored curse: “T!#3!”). This has to come back
to Pet Sounds. Is that my rule, my primary desire, because
I’m doing the typing here? Sure. But look at me now typing
“subversive marketing.” What is that and what was it ever—
let’s hear it; anyone? Anyway, it’s just my loaded and hypo
critical question. But feel free to send me your answer to
it – Google me. Send it to my Gmail address. I don’t really
need to know. Might it change my mind? Sure, anything’s
possible. But I do not do guerilla. (Catch me in a lie, it’s fine
if I’m the one setting the trap, right?) And I’m persistent.
Not with finding an audience. Should I be? Don’t answer that
I can’t write about this. Because *. When is the
last time this happened? Perhaps when i took a
Xanax and went dancing with a massive box of
overcrowded straight people (that’s my judgment,
as well-educated as it is or isn’t; an indication for
you to judge me, okay?). I’m rereading Pet Sounds.
This is relevant only because it’s what’s happening.
I want to accrue diaries again; write them; read
them. I wrote a piece a few days ago to put in
mine, which for years has been electronic, an “app”
that I never add to, but one that automatically,
inserts all of my so-called social media posts in
to it. Mostly from Twitter and my Anachronizms
blog. As I post them (boom!). I only ever tweet
to tout, to advertise, to, what did that guy on
Facebook call it yesterday, to self-promote. “I
haven’t self-promoted in a few weeks,” he noted, “so
[and here he inserted a self-promotion].” To which
my initial reaction is to at least verbalize the word
retch. But why? And isn’t that just utterly ridiculous?
All I do on Twitter, yes, I said this, is self-promotion;
and I’m thinking of this because it was that which in
me produced such an eye-rolling from me as I read it
yesterday. And then if you ask me if market my work,
if I do marketing, if I “self-promote,” I am more than
pleased to proclaim that I do. Isn’t that just pride? And
the joy of running a little magazine (in case you’re not
aware, it’s called SHAMPOO – and you can find it at
shampoo-poetry.com, which is not the original URL,
but that one I WILL get back, eventually, I swear.
That very slow, almost interminable, yet all-too-
swift thing called time, said as if it were nothing
but a censored curse: “T!#3!”). This has to come back
to Pet Sounds. Is that my rule, my primary desire, because
I’m doing the typing here? Sure. But look at me now typing
“subversive marketing.” What is that and what was it ever—
let’s hear it; anyone? Anyway, it’s just my loaded and hypo
critical question. But feel free to send me your answer to
it – Google me. Send it to my Gmail address. I don’t really
need to know. Might it change my mind? Sure, anything’s
possible. But I do not do guerilla. (Catch me in a lie, it’s fine
if I’m the one setting the trap, right?) And I’m persistent.
Not with finding an audience. Should I be? Don’t answer that
question. But I do like my marketing subversive, to a degree.
And I’m fidgety, so it keeps me doing something. For example, I
do this (that) (which is take out my trash in San Francisco).
Notice I’m differentiating where I’m doing that something?
Then I do something else (this) (I sit a while to write a few
more lines of this poem seemingly about everything and
nothing). One of the joys and sadnesses of any Oulipian
limitation is that I cannot write every single thing all
at once (quick, what are you thinking right at this
moment?). I’m not asking you to exert yourself that
much. I’m only just wondering who you are, where
you are in time? It brings me much joy to wonder,
to be curious, to contemplate that question.
Sometimes that becomes overly difficult, even as it
is obviously impossible. So then what I get instead of
joy is consternation; there’s a negative context to that,
right? Aha, you might be incorrect. That can’t be good.
But isn’t it all relative? No matter what a master dictionary
(or a master dick) demands? Where was I? I do love that
question, so often posed, of course, both to myself, and to
you (who may actually exist!). I don’t know that I feel I
need you to exist (me me me!). There seem times I
need to at least believe that you do. Exist, that is.
But so what if you don’t? I’m serious, I think. But it is
nevertheless a legitimate question, I suppose. So. I’m
starting to reread a lovely book by a person I know dearly.
Her name is Stephanie Young and it’s called Pet Sounds.
*I must really get a job.
With a postscript to Stephanie: Yes, I picked up another copy.
And I’m fidgety, so it keeps me doing something. For example, I
do this (that) (which is take out my trash in San Francisco).
Notice I’m differentiating where I’m doing that something?
Then I do something else (this) (I sit a while to write a few
more lines of this poem seemingly about everything and
nothing). One of the joys and sadnesses of any Oulipian
limitation is that I cannot write every single thing all
at once (quick, what are you thinking right at this
moment?). I’m not asking you to exert yourself that
much. I’m only just wondering who you are, where
you are in time? It brings me much joy to wonder,
to be curious, to contemplate that question.
Sometimes that becomes overly difficult, even as it
is obviously impossible. So then what I get instead of
joy is consternation; there’s a negative context to that,
right? Aha, you might be incorrect. That can’t be good.
But isn’t it all relative? No matter what a master dictionary
(or a master dick) demands? Where was I? I do love that
question, so often posed, of course, both to myself, and to
you (who may actually exist!). I don’t know that I feel I
need you to exist (me me me!). There seem times I
need to at least believe that you do. Exist, that is.
But so what if you don’t? I’m serious, I think. But it is
nevertheless a legitimate question, I suppose. So. I’m
starting to reread a lovely book by a person I know dearly.
Her name is Stephanie Young and it’s called Pet Sounds.
*I must really get a job.
With a postscript to Stephanie: Yes, I picked up another copy.
