I have no product, no strategy, offer no service but friendly and monastic attention

My story? I’m an addict. I have dozens of readers; each word I write, I hear it as a possible message to them. Here I am crucifying on capitalism’s stake inventing the thought that might keep me in the game ~ here I am a worm, making myself real, a piggie roasting on the spit of awareness, of too deep a memory bank, too agile a creative voice

That’s funny; it’s also what I’ve always done. Maybe I’m learning or tasting or touching the futility of writing more; it just goes deeper into the permanent nothing, the vast quiet, the endless presence; maybe this is the point—maybe I have reached heaven, the promised land, and it is not a life like the one I thought, dressed in J. Crew sweaters and attending events where I am the star speaker—no one cares what I say because I am not consistent, I am free, an inventor, a sparkling octopus who will say something new next and it will be jazz; try as I might, I can’t fly away from language and how it takes shape in a listener and reader; try as I might to get away from you, I cannot

now, is it good to publish a lot and distance myself from the past? I wonder what I’m running from or toward—I’m caught in spiritual ecstasy; I’m facing the fact that I can’t make a mistake, that of course it’s good to be in a room alone practicing your craft, walking away from the real life you used to have, becoming an art machine, giving your life over to The Voice, talking to yourself endlessly; the question now will be endurance: how will you support yourself, feed yourself, go to bed at night and wake up in the morning and continue delighting in the flow of FREE TIME which probably makes other people jealous ~ children of course live the best lives available; OK, I will meander back to reading the British psychoanalyst Adam Phillips wax on about the human condition, Freud and the reality of these experiences, this consciousness, this being alive

life really is long; the day is unchanging—it is funny, weird, bewildering, the prospect of getting older, settling down into this career (will I teach, join academia, pledge to some hierarchy which gives me security…or will I continue being a bandit, floating above bank account zero, stingy, down to my last meal or week or month of housing, running out of luck, an impossible man who has no choice but to make the niche and place he will reside: freedom to be as crazy as he is

(it does feel good to write and post; this place is a place to be free)

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filling the blinking cursor with whatever comes up, letting the leviathan lead me to glory, singing popular music covers on video on Smule too, speaker, rambler

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Geoffrey Lewis

filling the blinking cursor with whatever comes up, letting the leviathan lead me to glory, singing popular music covers on video on Smule too, speaker, rambler