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3.7.07

I can live. But I don’t own houses or anything. Some months there isn’t any money. You’re always trying to work out problems in your life. If everything is fine, then there’s no sense of really being involved in writing poetry and music that explores your life or the feelings about yourself. I don’t know what you’d write if you had no material to work with. You accumulate a lot of shit over your life from when you’re a kid, and you try and use it to grow something. I don’t want to be a professional; doing everything regardless of fallacy. - Billy Childish

We have to go to Ontario to find my dictionary. We need to look up the word bondable, which actually means:

5. A duty, promise, or other obligation by which one is bound.

Does another corporation own you? The law?

Slacker means:
1. one that shirks work or evades military duty
2. the waste left after the melting of ores and the separation of metal from them.

I want to know everything there is to learn. I want to take all of it and keep it and understand it.

"Ask for work. If they do not give you work, ask for bread. If they do not give you work or bread, take bread."

Sept. 19, 2006

It's as though I had no choice. Not because of Georgia or anything, but because it's just what I'm supposed to do. I don't make the choices, they make me, or that thing my dad always says, about my mom. The way she goes along with people, saying "Yeah, yeah, I can do that" and then turning around and thinking "Now how the hell am I gonna do that". It seems the only way to force yourself to use everything you have to make a way.

Also, I can't write now that I'm settled.
Nothing is occurring to write about.
So something must occur.

We were lying naked under covers, our noses touching, hot breathe.
"Are you going to play guitar for a living?"
"Yes."
We fell asleep.

"I was looking for a job and then I found a job. Heaven knows I'm miserable now."
- The Smiths

What do you do with a headstrong girl? Send her to Canada, or better yet, get her pregnant and marry her. - Elle



What is a home. A bed, a window, a blanket, a pen, a drink.

Nowhere is made somewhere because I have it in my hand.

My home spills out onto the floor everywhere I go, but I gather it and keep on. Sometimes I lose pieces, but I'm none the wiser, and more come back to me. I don't know if I'll ever find something more reliable to carry my home in, but maybe. This one's floppy and made of black leather.

Maybe it's the way you walk
Or the chill of your shoulder
Or that we both feel sick when we're sober