NACRAMENTAL
I spoke with Bill Burroughs the day before last,
Jean Genet just before that. Today was the day
for some diatribe or other that Henry Miller was
supposed to send. I got it, but I'm bored to death.
Or sentimental tears. Anyway, I wouldn't be that
surprised to see Francois Villon show up
when I was taking a shit. And - as it is -
what would I care then? Nothing.
-
I slept with Anais Nin. It was pretty good, and
she really was a wild-child. Sensitive, but wild.
Over here, in Princeton, I can visit the grave of
Sylvia Beach anytime I like; and I do. No
comparison, however, let me say.
-
Today, I would have really liked to be in Philadelphia;
have a beer on Rittenhouse Square. Nice place to be,
I wished I was there - the vegetable vendors on
Saturday morns, all those bizarrely beautiful farmgirls
from the Pennsylvania lawns. The Barnes & Noble
shyly fronting the square, some idiot Negro out front,
declaiming on about something. The natural foods
geek with the wispy beard, playing a ukulele.
-
What's the use of living anyway? You do it 'til you
die; and then you don't, and then it's over. You sit
down in your pants, feeling your own shit, sitting in
your life's debris. Roll the eyes once over more.
And die. I hear it's still for free.
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