2003-09-20 3:23 a.m.
Self-manipulation

I should have been in bed hours ago; Zane and I are trekking down to NYC tomorrow for the Swingin' Utters show and I HAVE TO DRIVE!

But I can't stop thinking about this; I've debated for far too long whether or not to just write it the fuck out, since this diary IS, obviously, my catch-all, my depository for, well, all the shit I can not stop thinking about.

I must reconcile the two budding authors in my head. The one that writes hard, and honestly, and bluntly, and concretely. And the one that writes profoundly, and deeply, the one that vomits expression, the arctic breeze, the sunspot fevers, the fluttering autumn leaf metaphors, down to the last drop of blood. I cannot see sadness (or any emotion) without also simultaneously seeing humor. And vice versa. Fluttering leaves shape images in my mind of lost innocence, a child's recollection of a father/daughter relationship that has seen better days. Yet they also bring to mind Terry Gilliam's hilariously animated suicidal leaf family. See what I mean? Now, how to reconcile these two so that each is given her due, and each is able to speak out, though as one voice?

I think I'll just have to get them drunk, and see to it that they end up in bed together.

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