fragments

1. i have no titles. i do not know titles. names are beyond me just now right now just.
   
2. i'm listening to Paul Oakenfold's Southern Sun, the last time i listened to this song, i fell asleep at the wheel 5am, New Year's Day, 2003, and drove a little blue hatchback full-speed through the intersection of a main road and a 4-lanes-a-side highway, taking out a traffic light and a palm tree. the palm tree later died. i did not. this continues to give me some sense of pleasure (that the palm tree died). (but i occasionally would be happy to trade places)
3. i know no-one likes to leave comments on posts where i swear, or talk about sex, or people in the nude, but i know many of you secretly like it because it's true-stuff that true-people say and true-people do and true-people fear and true-people want and the things that cause almost all true-people pain,pleasure,awkward isolation,consummate love,entice hatred loneliness fear self-loathing; and at least a few of you are true-enough-people. that being said, she's wonderful isn't she? she's intersting and fiesty and completely self-unaware, and doesn't give a lick about any acheivement but being human and that's the one she has the most trouble with (like me). (but in my novels, everyone is me). the more i get to know her, the more i like her. the more i find with her the world is a war that never ended. and she's soo soft, and soo simple, and soo easy, and, as i read once in the introduction to a book on Lacanian Psychology: the logic of the female is like an underground current, present and certain and ceaseless, and finds its way through any obstacle, and just when it's ready, springs to the surface; no one knowing where it started, how it got there, or why - but knowing its paces were deliberate and certain and the outcome exactly as it should have been. (i have paraphrased the whole thing entirely from my memory of reading something once on a bus in 2002 with dim lights - which is to say: i probably made the whole thing up)
   
   i am saying all this because: my novel grows. slowly. fingertips. eyelids. slowly features are made clear to me, parallels, things interlock, and i continue to embue it with more and more of myself until i can't distinguish me from the plans in my head - and then, only then, it without warning starts to spill itself onto a page. and then we begin.
   
4. i am tired. i have no good ideas to write about tonight. but it's raining, and in order to communicate effectively with the rain, it's important i make a tapping noise, she likes it when i contribute. (I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
   And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
   That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
   Darkness there, and nothing more.