3:56 pm | 28 January 2003 | on the verge

“I am too old, too wild. Under my thin membranes a dark heart beats like the silent threat of an orange-seed, held in its womb of juice.”

-one of the more deranged entries in my bedside journal, where I write
whatever occurs to me on that border between sleep and dream

Porkchop and I can’t stop talking about how something is “on the wind”—some change in the air. Something is afoot. It’s rather like the wind rushing down the moors in Wuthering Heights. It’s rather like angst, real angst: dread.

This persistent psychological weight is unhinging me in significant-yet-still-socially-ignorable ways. For instance, I can’t stop listening to the Waterboys’ “Fisherman’s Blues.” No, for real. It’s been two days and it’s on almost non-stop. I had a crying fit last night, and then I smoked about a thousand cigarettes and stared at the wall. My eyes are glassy, foreign. My laughter has become manic; i am smoking cigarettes too rapidly and then staggering. I lost ten pounds in a week and then ate ten ounces of raw salmon last night, three donuts today, forty gallons of coffee a week (probably closer to four gallons, but still). I didn’t recognize myself when I was cutting off my hair in chunks, without a mirror, and then throwing the clippings out the window. Yanqui U.X.O. is freaking me out unutterably and I can’t listen to it any more. I don’t remember my dreams until the next day when they play themselves out in diners, in my car, on the street. Last night I was crying and crying and my dog bit at my hands and i thought, If i am alone right now, i will go mad. I am alone right now. I keep thinking of the sea. I am on the verge of something. clm.