Caught. Drinking. El Gaucho. Never seen more rich old men than this but I’m in the basement and they’re moving through doorways

The basement some psychoanalytic film series trying to get its butt off the ground. Art people. Therapists. An old film by Ophul. He said how do you say it? Awful. He said how do you say it? Oh fool. Sandwiched between two hearty fools foiling the stiffness, all the Frasier-looking psychologists in the audience. (She agreed.) The drinks were free all was free and the ticket bought    martini   that fit perfectly into the drink holder in the seat in the screening room in the basement

Upstairs old men pay hundreds of dollars and down here they can’t even pipe in air   so mad I handed her over and left saying I was tired which I am but drove finished the project   it’s all I know now and forgot there’s other stuff out there, like the old water

Just as I descend into hers she’s up at mine. Terrorizing mine

Every time she thinks of him she lights a match
To remind her not to think of him
She’d have to set herself on fire to stop it

Instead she burns down other people’s lives

...

Other stuff out there working four days straight. No sex. No movement. No thought. No. no. not even light. She said. How. I watched her, is how. I watched them   disappearing   into the fifties, the oppression, the trick

They build their whole personas around food and hardly eat enough to sustain themselves. They manage their schedules their bodies into homogeneity and then wonder why other people don’t think they are unique. Fuckers. I’m so fucking tired of that crap. She said she couldn’t hang with men because it would be so different and I was like what the fuck you think you’re on another planet like how the hell you going to hook up with someone if you go on like that. Jesus. Drives me fucking nuts   every   single   time

So there they were talking food but declining it. Nothing sounds more transparent; nothing makes women seem so docile. They’re unravished. Uneaten

I need them to tool self-subjugation, to make easiness bad and whimsy crazy

The professor from NYU was told we were writers and the woman said she was happy to meet us   others like her   agents for social change is what she said. I was glad the professor didn’t ask me what I write. (Not a writer.) Not anything right now

But finished. This light’s going out.