(Last year, I started adding some of my journal entries from 1983 onto my blog. I got my January entries up, and got distracted. Recently, I’ve been thinking about 1983 again, so I’m posting a few more entries. To see previous entries, check my 1983 section.)
February 5, 1983: After a long sleep, I return to reading and listening to music. An old Celt talks about the three major traditions of Irsh music, to lull, to rejoice, and to lament. And what are the traditions of commercial radio? Full of Bukoswki. Bourbon, waiting for a dinner with old friends.
February 6, 1983: Weary again. Misanthropic. Moving back to romance, to money. Millions of people throughout the ages aspire to be something other than one of millions of aspirants. I don’t know what I want except right now I want sleep.
February 7, 1983: An upper right side performance: beautiful women, horrible lovers, speaking of this recognition or that, helps add to by cynicism. An icicle hangs in front of the TV camera which keeps the apartment safe. Pausing to ponder provkes police. Peace, people. Reading George Eliot. I’m feeling romantic again.
February 8, 1983: Joys of hacking. Sitting at comp center terminal exploring the system. Broken trains. New projects. George Eliot. Finding a face-up penny. Arranging a spur of the minute date. Bad headache. So much for now.
February 1, 1983: Another day with nothing to say. NY Times picture of Reagan at National Conference of Religious Broadcasters praying. “The man with his eyes open is the Secret Service agent”. The hand reaches, pauses, reaches, pauses, but does not grasp the subway pole. I did not read anything except the Times, and hence, again, my writing seems to suffer.
February 2, 1983: Ab’s birthday, ground hog didn’t see his shadow. Late night drinking with Steve. Tomorrow bleed, presentation, opera. Read a little wrote a little. Good thinking at prayer group. Good night. Thirty words a night and I call this writing?
February 3, 1983: It was the beginning of your typical New York romance. A weeknight opera, after a hectic day. Great discussion. Literature, scotch, subways. I reached the two gallon mark today. Violets, wither, get poisoned. Valentines day, like back in grammar school. Send lots of cards. Concern about keeping writing private.
February 4, 1983: Tired. These late nights are taking a toll on me. Climbing into bed to read and listen to music. Tom Hoeft goodbye lunch today. Lots of Sangria. The kind you lose track of how much you’ve had after your first couple sips. Image of yesterday: Manikin on bicycle.
January 29, 1983: What am I looking for? Having spent a domestic day and reading Bukowski. I push myself hard until I burnout, then I feel guilty about burnout. Stardust memories. Non Sequitur of locations. Existentialism met with a laugh, and loving ladies lost on lithium. Oh well. In my despair, existential and verbicidal, I pour myself a stiff one, and prepare to cry myself to sleep. Woody Allen recalls the transcendent moment from the existential despair.
January 30, 1983: Coffee with Dave Sturman, “Since I got into EST, I don’t get into intellectual discussions, I mean, like so what?” Searching for a sense of religious community. Dogwood festival in Tennessee. When I pass through Miami, the sixth borough.
January 31, 1983: Bukowski – writer’s blocks and sex. And I ask myself, what do I have to say? My life seems horribly ordinary. And yet, I’ll go to the Opera Thursday with a beautiful woman I met on the trains.
January 26, 1983: Feeling particularly romantic today. Again, very tired. Polished up documentation at work and learned more about security. Didn’t read today except the paper. Not feeling much like writing
January 27, 1983: Letter from Mom, investigating Omegamon etc. at work. Health food. Perhaps more important as Karmic massage oil. Towel hanging next to print of St Peter reflected in mirror. Not much reading today. I think I’ll read other than Tolstoy. Old glasses frame dig in behind ears.
January 28, 1983: Shining lips, shining eyes. (“Shining as she reeled him in”). Juror on a case about a con-man. (17 convictions) who pretended to be South African questions perceptions, like a philosopher on the jury. It’s rough living in a meet-eating world. We only perceive what people allow us to perceive (including ourselves?) Late for meetings. It is frustrating to see an artist put everything possible into a work and see others glance, perhaps even enjoy immensely, and move on.
I continue to post journal entries from my journal twenty-five years ago. Back then, I was leaving my job as a computer consultant to travel. Not all of the entries are all that coherent, but I’m posting most of them as is.
January 23, 1983: Gone is the intensity I once had. Gone too is that religiosity. Looking in the eyes of people whose approach to Christianity is the starting point of what I detest. Live a complicated life so that those who don’t live can live through you. Story: Hacker breaks security, discovers industrial espionage. Cynical Resolution.
January 24, 1983: Vacation day. Have I burnt myself out? Striving for relaxation and intensity. Blood pressures seemed higher. Is private space possible? Roommates next door, friends in the mind. Victim of the aesthetic realists. Soho Chainsaw Massacre. Puking on a gallery window. Am I burnt out? Spent? Wasted? Dead? Or merely silent? I’ll not write more now due to my spaciness.
January 25, 1983: Freakdom and Scotch on Robert Burns Birthday. Jimbo called during party. Sounded like Doug. Steve Wilson: Chaz and Steve here. Joys of Decadence. The women I’m interested in. Riding the train as an outlaw. Goodnight.