With will will we withstand, withsay.

ok because this is the only space no one ever sees, i’m gonna spout rubbish and ignore my inhibitions about squiggly letters getting a life of their own. thats the thing really, my truest fear, barring snakes or that particular personalized coffin, is conflict with the knowledge of self. even orphidian worries are nothing that sends the chills downward. one’ll have to forage into depths unknown to find a fear that tilts me into the region of irrational neurosis.

for a start, human nature is close to the clearest clean surface i know

Life is a remarkable gift.

education systems as bound by society

personal background, way of life as bound by family

milieu

chronology of reading + proportion ,importance

case studies in inter personal interaction

my failings

shocks

1. “Then, in that case, all the rest, all that I thought I thought and all that I felt I felt, all the rest before now, in fact.
2. “They are heard now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night as gems, hurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what journey’s end—what heart? —bearing what tidings?” — Stephen Dedalus
3. “Welcome, O life, I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.” — Stephen Dedalus

To begin with, this case should never have come to trial.

in review, do you realise now

what makes?

this is hard to explain, I mean who the man was,
anyhow, it was in a large structure and he sat in
a chair in uniform, red coat and all, his job was
to examine the hand-stamp of those who left the
structure and returned, there was a lamp you put
your hand under and the stamp appeared (god that
was work) anyhow, as I put my hand under the lamp
the man asked, “listen, what’s your name?”
“Hank,” I answered
“listen, Hank,” he asked, “what makes a man a
writer?”
“well,” I said, “it’s simple, it’s either you
get it down on paper or you jump off a
bridge.
writers are desperate people and when they stop
being desperate they stop being
writers.”
“are you desperate?”
“I don’t know…”
I walked on through and as I took the escalator up
I saw him sitting there, probably thinking that it was possibly
bullshit, he had wanted me to suggest some special
school, some special way, like some way to get out
of that red coat, it was not an enlightening job
like designing a bridge or batting cleanup for the
Dodgers but
he wasn’t desperate enough, the desperate don’t ask,
they do
and at the top of the escalator I pushed through the
glass doors and as I did, I thought, son of a bitch,
I should have asked him his name, and then I felt
bad for him and for myself but a few minutes later
I had forgotten all about him
and the other way around
and he watched more hand-stamps under the lamp
and I watched the toteboard and the horses and
the desperate people
desperate in all the wrong
ways, in-
deed.

I HAVE been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

list of things that dont help