Thursday, October 09, 2003

The Secret Diary of Drew

It's approaching three o'clock and I'm all Fox Mulder "Trust No One" paranoia and George Constanza anxiety of worlds colliding. Everything is knotted up so tightly I wonder if Viola was wrong — even time itself could not undo all the snags and loops. Loop. That's a good word right now. Somehow, a paper on James Joyce's Dubliners will be written, but somehow I feel I've been double crossed when I logically know I haven't.

I think I would need a second, secret blog to write all this down. The Secret Diary of Drew. And then I would give it to some shut-in and we could Hardy Boys it back later.

Nothing's ever easy. Nothing's every simple. Nothing is as ever as basic as I think when I first look at it. Why can't I remember that?

kidicarus222: what makes me tick:
kidicarus222: pride
kidicarus222: insecurity
kidicarus222: a small chemical imbalance
kidicarus222: a healthy sex drive
kidicarus222: the journalistic pursuit of the truth
kidicarus222: james joyce
kidicarus222: gale weathers
kidicarus222: naomi watts
kidicarus222: david cross
kidicarus222: and
kidicarus222: the knowledge that i will leave the world a changed place when i die
kidicarus222: the nexus is just a monkey house i work at sometimes

I've tied these goddamn knots all by myself. Maybe they're keeping me whole. Maybe without my knots, my insides would be on the outside.
He turned his eyes to the grey, gleaming river, winding along towards Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a good train winding out of Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness, obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the syllables of her name.
Run all the way to the McKenzies' house.