Jesus and a Snow Plough I was born in Ohio, which never sounds satisfying....born in Ohio, a land of evil men; of women saying warsh your hands. Girl Scout troups, Protestant churches, Jesus bleeding hands and watchful eyes and words too evil to hold them in your mouth. I want to type my memoirs for someone else, I want them in a manuscript and gone, I want to type instead of writing them all out this way, because it's.....well, a lot of reasons. But here I am writing or trying to, it just feels too exposed to sit typing them up on a shared computer in my parents' house.

I was born in Ohio despite being born in Maine. Wasconceived in Virginia, Lynchburg, or so I'm told and the calculations come out right to place it there, probbaly. Lewiston, Maine,always thought it was Auburn [where] born, as where parents lived, but birth certificate says Lewiston, Maine. Writing is a way to distance oneself from the past?

What is Trevor looking for in all those horroscopes he conjures up? Is it the same, as I look through dictionaries for the same kind of information, I mean?

There is nothing inn this room or place to help me at all to concentrate my thoughts. Is that okay? Nick Drake is Bryter Later background blues: I am jealouse of a sparer life. I am running out of patience with myself and the process of trying to write something reasonably good, something with a reasonable chance of being important. I don't believe that people are basicly good. I don't believe people are basicly anything, sometimes I almost don't believe people basicly exist. Sometimes truelly it's easy to forget the world means a place full of creatures living and verbing and not just a large amount of space and nouns. I do like nouns. This thing, that thing, here,or there. It's verbs that throw me, confuse me, interact with me. I'd like to dream through a world where everything's [illeg. line--washed away ink.] me.  ¶ 6:42 AM