pic of jack/poem/pic of sarges/diatribe

my mom gets mad at me when i write or say anything negative about myself that i am thinking. it seems she doesn't understand that for me any experience able to be put into language in any form is fair game because there's so much untranslateable into and from the meat darkness. in fact i'll go crazy and specify: conrad wrote heart of darkness which i read maybe twenty pages of before losing in which he gave to these nonverbalizable parts a local habitation and a name namely i guess the congo but inside the self it's there and lurking hence the "heart" part of the title i'm guessing. none of this is in fact particularly insightful it is in fact old and tired but to feel it inside and apply said words to said phenomenon is like a pool and you've named the pool rim "pool rim" and inside is the damn signifier staring at you possibly with the correct pool until you're blue in the face (because the water makes you look blue): it looks like you but if lucky you can see something move in the depth. s. do i know how to construct a poem or what.

some thing. something so mething HATE
some thing something some thing DATE
some thing something someth ing LATE
something somethi ng s omething WHAT?



i keep tugging at myself and tugging and tugging. were i a sweater i'd be completely stretched out of shape and at least partially unravelled. i think this has partially to do with the fever. partially exhibit a is myself on the horns of a dilemma. how much apology is allowable? does warm face and cold hands spell beth and beladonna to everyone? how do you spell "beladonna?" is it brave to put my name to this offense, or ungrateful? how do you spell "offense?" is that a small gnome irish jigging on the keyboard or is it the sound of two hands typing? am i a remotely reasonable facsimile of a person, or does my subjecthood resemble the michelin guy as closely as my body does? daddy do i want a drink of water?

i'm really sorry; i'd keep saying so but it's pretty much totally self-indulgent. i'm sorry for so many different reasons: 1., i was wrong, 2., i knew i was wrong when i did it...hence 3., it's not an action i can look in the face and say "it was really a mistake. honestly, it was a mistake," because unlike most of the wrongs i do it was no mistake, though i can't say it was a machiavellian-ly-plotted maneuver because otherwise i'd have found some way to put myself into the right before doing it, at least in my mind. i don't think i've ever been this wrong before.

which, frankly, now that i've admitted i feel better about. i'd like to think that i'd feel better about it even if the affair hadn't somewhat blown over because the person in question is being so inordinately understanding (and by the way when i try to put myself into her perspective what i get is this, like, furnace-blast of thinking about myself "what a fucking jerk, what a fucking jerk," kind of ad infinitum but gaining in violence). but it's probable that that level of moral distinction doesn't exist in me... MAN, do i have to stop writing about this, before the huge crap-pile of self-obsession that i like to call "honesty" at last succumbs to the force of gravity all over me (ohhh yeah).

h- to the -uzzah. nothing should be able to soothe the wrong i've done. but it can. and that's stupid.

i wonder how many first grade time capsules there are out there that have been destroyed by war, development, deforestation... i also wonder if the warmth emanating from the back of my head is approximately equal to that which would be generated by a small long-haired cat sitting on the nape of my neck. i'm guessing no. must...put...down...internet...