A slow dismal day begets slow dismal thoughts.
Read E A Robinson for a bit and remembered my fondness for his lines. Not usually his entire poems, but the lines, how they bob pleasantly with his rhythms. Then some Robert Lowell. Lowell after this was like the harsh smack of brandy after too much dessert wine. He’s good, forceful. He takes my hand and jerks me, stumbling, into his strange sad world.
Met L for very pleasurable brunch yesterday. Can feel my interpersonal skills growing blunt and flabby; she whips me into shape socially. I must must must care for the others! I know I enjoy these friends of mine tremendously when I make myself grab my keys and leave this quiet house to its quiet devices. Not sure what is wrong with my mood; the fragile bodies of concentration and happiness have cracked open a little. Tonight, a movie. Wednesday, more talking laughing and half empty soda cans. Friday, a party and bonfire in someone’s remote and expansive backyard. Boys screaming with alcohol in their brains, girls mindlessly humoring with flowers on their tongues. I’ll do it; be present at the very least. I must, or socially parish.
Want to be much more literary than I am. Have always wanted this. To know what’s waiting in all those books that hug the walls of our library. All my vicious wants are climbing to grisly heights. They are too ambitious. It’s just this self I need. I am enough as a collection of nerves and tissues on this black ripped computer chair.
Sometimes I try to better myself, but the road to knowledge is daunting, and I get so horribly tired.