I cooked Tortilla con Patatas this noon between talks to my, i suppose, ex-love. She told me she’d call in 1 1/2 or 2 hours and I took a walk, came back, was hungry, was lonely, was despondent. So I created the tortilla. I made a fucking mess in Suzie and Loyal’s kitchen. The tortillia was mediocre. Like me. Today was the last day I will talk to Jana. She leaves to England in less than 6 hours. Our discussion today was among the most sexual and most relentlessly depairing. Details would be painful. Would you like to have some Tortilla con Patatas? There are some still left. Hm.

tigresa should thank nedbathlus for her opportunity to become a livejournal member or I shall personally skin and bone her, or, with the correct implements, create sausage from her. I am very fond of sausage.

Susie -

Thank you very much nedbalthus, for being so kind as to allow me access to romp here! It is much appreciated. I shall endeavor one day to return the favor.

As for Bob, feel the bite of stiletto!

Absurdly, as usual, I have chanced upon a possible conclusion as to why I was so attracted to Jana at first. (You must remember that this was 1 1/2 years ago.) Possibly one factor was because she was such an untalented smoker. Just like Vesna. Even Vesna’s sister commented over and over again that Vesna had no style whilst smoking. Her cigarette hung clumsily in her fingers and her wrist tilted at awkward angles. When I first met Jana, in that pub with a name I cannot recall, when I ordered Lucky Strikes Lites, and offered to light her first, her hands stumbled like a child with her first violin. She took the flame so close to her fingers that I feared she’d scorch herself. As trivial as it might seem, it is not farfetched….

I have an extremely difficult time motivating myself to write these days. What do you think it is? Atrophy of the brain? Boredom with life? Resignment? Leprosy? I cooked Tom Kha Gai this evening for Loyal and Zuzicka. It was most enjoyable – especially the response received. At least I can pursuade myself that I am well versed in one non-trivial pursuit.

Otherwise, the day went un-splendidly. I suppose I was mostly recovering from yesterday’s attack of hypoglycemia. It was absolutely cruel. I was shaking so badly that I could hardly type. I feared sleeping. I thought I would never wake. Consequently, I lay in bed for most of yesterday forcing myself to not drift into slumber. Though I am sure I did tumble a few times into a semi-unconsciousness. Last night was mostly sleepless, as well. As my illness receded, my doubts and inner sickness concerning my apparent loss of Jana gripped me uncompromisingly. I was terrified – broken. I spent the most of the night chatting on ICQ (I should have been writing here, instead) with boring asians who thought as little of themselves as I do my health.

I should elaborate on last week. Hm. I shall pause again, however, as the flat once again swarms with shouting people and scurrying cat.

Agur.

Suzie and Loyal chat about things I cannot discern in their bedroom and I am finally alone in my bedroom (their living room). The couch on which I sit shall serve as my sleeping place in a few weary hours. Somewhere in the flat, there is the soft padding of their cat and Slapp Happy grates away through the air reminding me painfully of Jana. Sometime during the next week my fate should, if all goes well, be sealed for some months. I shall empty by brain into the workplace which is also Loyal’s own upon each workday and also, I am sure, during many weekends. This time it will be solamente for money and my mortal flesh shall be, because of cash’s uplifting quality, bound around the world once again and hopefully land in beauteous Praha, home of my craving(s).

I am very happy with our jukebox. Well, our computer on whose hard drive are a sprawling 5 or so days worth of music usually set on random play.

nechtel bych hajzl. ne ne ne. i lost my darlinka last night and i feel like being somewhere between contrite and violent. listening to psi vojaci does not help. does this help? i think i shall have another cigarette. dying young will solve all of my problems. jsem 32. je mladej? i want to know the answer to this question.

And what? I am subdued and cloistered in California at the moment. I wonder about my future here and my ACTUAL future with Jana in Prague. My friends have retreated to the gym as I scratch and flail about their flat with no clear intention. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing creative. I am as dead in California as I was in bleak Fort Stockton.

Constant solitude leads to perpetual grief. Sick! Sick! Sick! Blades tear at me and I dream of shaving my body-hair, and its whiskering remains. I shall dye the embryo of my child a light blue and scream that the life I left was unformatted and unfair. Drowning in books is dying in escape while the prod of life unseats those unsober. I shall die a sad, unlonely man, a stricken man.

It was perhaps the most depressing Xmas of my life. Ufff… Now, at least being somewhere which allows me to access internet makes it ‘un poco suave’ in a manner, loosens my fingers and unfreezes my mind. The bleakness here is almost unbearable, and were I not less drunk, I would describe it in a marbleizing manner. The conversation I had with the only human in this wilderness that I remotely care about cerca two days prior revealed the same sentiments as I have. A prolonged visit here would result in suicide. I want to go to Pecos, Texas, to be reminded. I want to see the grave and cry. The claws of time and of atrophy have torn me to pieces. Why did I ever return to the Good Ol’ USA?

I took a ride with Amy last night. Amy is my cousin. 10 years my superior. We paused for a delicious meal in Arlington (Indian). Our conversation centered around something I have rarely discussed with anyone in my lifetime - that is, our relationship with our parents. And especially the rodina of my father and her mother. I will begin with an instance she explained to me concerning a great uncle by the name of Lynn who used to live in Walla Walla Washington (or so I am told). It shocked me.

Lynn was my father’s father’s brother. Apparently, he had a daughter who’s name I have forgotten. Something beginning with an E. One day, when E was walking home from school (it was not far from home), she was joined by a black girl her age - in her class - a friend, I assume. These girls were 10 years old at the most. They paused for some moments outside of E’s house to finish their conversation. They dawdled there for some moments, enough for the household (Uncle Lynn) to take notice. The black child left finally and E, I would like to think, smiling, rapped at - or just opened - the front door to enter her home and perhaps do her homework or even prepare for dinner. I do not know the details. Nor did Amy. Uncle Lynn was outraged. E was caught by the scruff of her neck like a misbehaving bitch and dragged into the bedroom where she was beaten until her breaths came in gasps. I imagine the pain suffusing her body. Uncle Lynn used a belt… the normal sort that even a kind man might wear about the waist. I believe she was hospitalized, but I do not know the entire tale. It is a sort of black folklore in my family.

Strange weekend. My kyla has been unexpectantly benign. I suppose I should be happy about that. So happy that it does not choke. Ufff.