its most strange and

its most strange , interesting and deligthful that whilst listening to irish

radio


in gaelic i get the distinct impression that I undestand what they are saying.
It must be the language of sleep, the one I mumble when I am asleep. All slushy n
rushy dragged about somewhat boggy here and there, at others flung as a wheeling gull in the far fears and leers of the sky , the he aven sun.

eating food i bought at restaurant.
tired of cooking

indeed. tired.


mais concernant ce langage de reve, well of course, its finnegans wake in the works.

winter is slushs and tears. tears
of years


~ ...


---------

Of course i am persecuted for my art (the persecution takes many shapes _ deprivation of work, money, friendship, isolation, no recognition, bad apartments for years, etcetera etcetera) . goes without saying.of course, the worst of it, is this.its all done daily. and the trouble with living this way. it turns you into something you are not.
that goes with the territory. does . i suppose what surprises me about this, is that it always comes disguised and from where and from whom, and from those , i least expect . clever.

silence and peace will never come to me. not on this planet. does not go with it. not here.


now then let us eat, and forget all this shit. while we can.