The blankness and use-lessness of my thoughts disappoints me at times. Like this educated and introspective mind should be capable of so much more when gifted some peace and quiet. Yet all I can manage at times, most days, are gripes and wasted ink and wasted Moleskin paper involving other people who really don’t matter.
Sitting on the couch now post pasta dinner, and a day of nothing but puffy carbs and empty cola calories. Days like now when my brain strains to form coherent streams of thought and wonder. Reflections on obsessions and rejections. And I’m alone. Really alone. Not even a friend. But I’m happy. I can hole-up here in my home and read, write, noodle around on the guitar. I know there’s an end date to this alone. God probably has it marked on his calendar of when my last day of alone is scheduled.
I’ve become friends with my regular escort. She’s cool with me cumming inside her sans condom. Then she’ll stick around and drink a cold can of beer in bed with me. She used the word “hooker” last time she was here. I laughed and told her I used to hear that word on old shows like The Rockford Files and never knew what the fuck it was. I was a kid and “hooker” sounded violent. I never asked my parents what it was.
Parker's Hootenanny 