[virii] March 9th

Tell yourself to write something, and you’ll feel adequate.

You’ll feel necessary. You’ll feel willful all of a sudden. I wish I could type as fast as I thought; I’m not much of a typer. I prefer the physical connection involved in writing. I don’t want to hear my words twice when I write. I don’t want a double echo. I don’t want to fall behind on my feelings.
In any case, this is what happens when you haven’t been at it for a while. Innuendo creeps in. It must be made more important. Stream of conciousness has been overdone. The reality eludes you. Before long, you’re talking in tongues. There you go again. What really defines you? And your sentences are too terse.
You’re still too slow, you know, the thoughts aren’t there yet, pick it up pick it up. I’m not looking at the screen, you know. You can chastise me later. I’m not going to edit this. I want to write, God help me, that’s what. Is that enough? I’ll correct the spelling afterward (look I told you I was a lousy typist. I’m not even a touch typist. I’m an all over the place typist). Like the words, the finger thoughts. You worry none of it will make sense. So what, ha. You’re not intent on creating genius. So what if people are confused. Listen you’re going to publish this? The reason is to give legitimacy. I didn’t like that line. But I’m not going to edit it.
It seems overdone. I said, stream of consciousness is cliché. My fingers hurt I’ve explained why see above. In any case, I should take typing lessons.
There’s a scratch and some redness on my hand because my hand is so dry because it’s so, so cold. Listen, I’m still wearing my winter coat. I had good things to say but this is what comes out when you’re just writing and don’t take the time to say anything. I’m feeling stressed. My stress rises in crescendos. I have multitudes of stress..stress (pause why am I pausing?) multitudes of stress…flies buzzing around impertinently. I want to read a book. And stop being needy. And pretentious. And see my friends and give them hugs (those that I can hug…the female variety). I worry about not making sense. I shift tenses. I start the work. I hurry to do something else, and I say: I will end.
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Excerpt from "Present Tense" a semi-autobiographical work of circular progress