The Book of Blown Gaskets

Journal #31
Sunday, July 1, 2007

Wet spoors invade the pre-dawn hours...

Awakened by squabbling birds that have nested underneath the air-conditioner—not altogether unpleasant... rotting fabric of a dream hangs in the chemical mist above my bed... missed chances in a receding night... cacophony of missed connections and blown chances...

The Great Book of Blown Gaskets
At my desk and getting sick* from the fumes already—even on a Sunday, when all the auto-body shops should be closed, right? Who knows where it’s coming from?

Applying online for jobs and posting resumes... but it’s hard to concentrate...

9:53—On a Q heading to Manhattan—
My skin is itching terribly and I’m groggy from toxins!
Walking up University Place last night: I feel the world crashing in on me, but then I see some poor soul with an artificial leg and I start to break down in tears... Empathy? Kundalini manifestation? Sheer horror? Who knows?

11:04—In some kind of weird cafe on the corner of 1st Ave and Houston.
Contaminated thoughts on a mindless page.
Oblivion neatly inscribed between parallel blue lines.

Book of Foregone Conclusions.

12:06—In an obscure and desperate corner of WSQ—

On the everlasting park bench... as phantoms disguised as tourists push through the heavy air...

*MCS: Acute, multiple chemical-sensitivity brought on by exposure to Methyline Chloride and 911 toxins!