The Unexpurgated Diary of R. Cody Taylor [entry #two]
[April 21, 2021. 6:36Pm.]
I don’t know what my entry point is, don’t know how to get started with the night’s writing. Feel like the last few days have been a snooze, nothing much has happened, at least nothing I feel will make for good, not even okay, writing. I’m thinking I need to turn back to Pessoa and look for something to rip-off and steal...Steal like an artist, right? Nah! I’m just a pathetic plagiarist, a no talent hack. Look for a line, copy something straight out of The Book of Disquiet. I thumb through the pages, and I don’t see anything that grabs my attention, or at least nothing I think I can use. Look one more time.
[6:58Pm.]
Here might be something, let’s see what happens…
For those few like me who live without knowing how to have life, what’s left but renunciation as our way and contemplation as our destiny?
I guess this works. I mean, really, look: I have no clue how to have a life, at least how to have an interesting life, one that seems worth living. Does that sound too hyperbolic? Maybe it does. Renunciation. Rejection of those beliefs I was brought up with, rejection of the life I was told I was supposed to live. Where am I going with this? Not really sure. I renunciate it all, reject it all.
I contemplate all kinds of meaningless bullshit all day long. I contemplate the boring and banal, the pointless. I contemplate the nothingness of my life, but what good comes from this? Nothing that I can see, at least nothing good. It’s all navel gazing. I look inward and forswear the life I’ve been handed. I spurn the banality of my day-to-day existence. Jesus! This is terrible, and I sound like I’m some sort of angry teenager who feels no one understands him, will I ever grow up and pull my head out of my ass? Probably not. I look deeply into my lint encrusted navel and I see my future. There’s nothing there. It’s empty. O! who gives a shit? What’s there for me to contemplate? NOTHING. I sit here and try to think, nothing comes from that, other than the feeling that I’ve used the word NOTHING way too many times and should probably try to find a synonym. This is my destiny. My burden. My so-called life [really? you’re going to use that?]…I’m not sure how to feel about this fact. Whatever. Nevermind. I FUCKING QUIT!
[9:29Pm.]
Here’s me ripping Pessoa off again.
By day I am nothing, and by night I am I.
One more time, I swear I’ll try to be original soon.
The nocturnal glory of being great without being anything! […] And at this table in my absurd room, I, a pathetic and anonymous office clerk, write words as if they were the soul’s salvation[…]
I’m in my back office, what used to be the laundry room, my desk sits right next to the water heater, and I’m trying to do the night’s writing. Trying to be great without being anything at all. I’m a pathetic janitor who spends his nights pretending to be some genius writer, spending late nights writing for salvation, trying to escape the vapidity of my daily life, my life in the sun, trying to be the writer I’ve always dreamed of being. I’m sure I’ll always be some sort of anonymous, low-level, grunt worker, but in my mind, when the sun goes down, I am a fucking genius and the words I write are perfect and they take me far away from the dull and ordinary bullshit of my humble life. The words I write, once the sun goes down, save my soul from the dullness of my daytime life cleaning toilets and mopping floors. At night I am I. And right now I am a writer and my soul flies high. I am saved and eternal. I am free. No longer a broom pusher. I am a poet, a writer, a man of words, and I am a fucking genius! Look at me go.
Now it’s time to just be true to myself and try to come up with some sort of originality. But is anything really original? Didn’t Solomon say there’s nothing new under the sun? I think so, and I tend to agree, and fuck! It’s easier to write when I have some words poached from one of the greats, someone like Pessoa, a man I can sort of relate to, at least from what I’ve read about him and his life. It seems he and I have a few things in common. I just wish I had his way with words, his talent. But like him, I live to write, even if that writing is never seen by anyone besides myself and the cat, Ms. Maggie Monster, and she’s been bored by my writing, she’s no longer interested in the words I scribble before bed, or on nights when I can’t sleep. She no longer cares much for the words that flow from the tip of my pen, a black Bic. No matter. Letting words pour from the pen helps me understand who I am a little better, and I need the release of scribbling in a notebook. I’ve got to get the pressure off my head. All those thoughts being bottled up is no good for me, makes me feel sick and frustrated, but when I can get the pen to speak, all is well in my heart and mind. Right now, I feel at ease. I feel free. But I’ve said this already, right? Soul’s salvation is words on the page, and right now the words feel like they may need to be written all night long. I’ve had way too much coffee today and sleep seems a long way away, don’t know that I’ll even want to sleep tonight. I probably will, and probably sooner rather than later, but for now I’m going to write and see what happens as my fingers bang on the keys of my laptop. See what happens as I let the thoughts escape from the hole in the back of my head. What’s next?
[10:17Pm.]
Took a late night Ritalin, trying to extend my night indefinitely, or at least extend it a few more hours. I feel like I should be writing and using this time as productively as I can, and I feel most productive when I’m writing and letting the words flow, and for the moment the words are coming without too much hassle, I don’t want it to stop, not yet anyway, even if the words are redundant and repetitive and not wholly original. I still gotta write them down and put them on the pulp page. Look: it just feels good to pen one more pathetic sentence, paragraph, page.
Thinking about going out for an energy drink at Kum-N-Go, and before the night’s out I’ll probably need another pack of cigarettes, just not sure the budget will allow for anymore smokes. What to do? Nothing for the moment. Just keep on writing and see where the rest of the night goes. Carrying on conversations with dudes from the internet, Instagram buddies, other writers, which is nice, since I rarely see anyone, or talk to anyone. Nice to have a few writers to bullshit with when I’m having trouble winding down for the night. I set an alarm for 11:30Pm, and have decided if I still want that energy drink at 11:30, well, I’ll leave the house and go buy one, but nothing before 11:30Pm. Who knows, maybe I’ll crash before then? Guess we’ll see.
[interlude: Book Break/Tea Time.]
[11:16Pm.]
Still thinking about that energy drink, or maybe a couple of cups of coffee from the gas station. Still feel pretty good about the rest of the night, seems like I can keep at this for another hour or two, maybe. The alarm will go off in 15(ish) minutes and I’ll go smoke and probably go buy a couple cans of some sort of power drink and see what else I can get done tonight. Still carrying on conversations with writer/internet buddies, nice to have someone to bullshit with at 11:21Pm, especially since I never have anyone to talk to about writing and all that sort of shit. It’s nice to finally have writer friends. For too long all my buddies have been rock ‘n’ rollers, nice to have a crew of writers to bullshit with when I still can’t sleep.
I'm still thinking about overindulging in some caffeinated beverages, get something like 900 milligrams of caffeine and get cranked and crunked and see if I can stay awake to see the sunrise. Probably a dumb idea, but sounds fun, why not, right? I guess the alarm will be sounding soon, and besides, I need another Lucky, guess I’ll think about leaving shortly, wait...what if the car breaks down on the way? A slight anxiety creeps up my back and takes up residency in the middle of my brain. UGH! I hate how my mind tries to attack me and keep me from doing what I want, should I, or shouldn’t I, take a trip to Kum-N-Go? Give me a few more minutes to think. Now I exit stage left and through the front door for one more cigarette, I still have an espresso drink in the fridge. I’ll have that and wait a little bit longer before leaving for the gas station.
[11:46Pm.]
Decided against the gas station and the energy drinks, at least until 4Am. Plan on being in bed by 1Am, but for now a double iced espresso from Starbucks, have one left. Nothing else until 4Am. Maybe I’ll do a smoothie soon. FUCK! This is getting a little bland, who wants to know what beverages I’m indulging in? I mean, really, who gives a shit? Not me. And now I’ll end this thought thread, I think.
[April 22, 2021. 12:20Am. Tomorrow is now Today.]
Beginning to come down, the buzz from all the caffeine, and that late night Ritalin, is wearing off and I feel like I’ve said too much today. I need to be quiet for a little while, and sleep seems to be something I should do. I mean, look, I’m sure you’re probably tired of talking to me, tired of listening to me ramble and say, more or less, the same shit over and over. I don’t know that I have anything left to say, should I sleep and recharge the creative battery? Seems like I should, but the thing is this: I can’t seem to really get in a groove creatively before 8 or 9 at night, seems like my peak creative hours are between 8Pm and 3Am, and then I’m dry for a couple of days. I don’t know if I should just keep at it and utilize every last waking minute. I guess I probably should, but I’ve also got to work at 8Am and doubt I can do that on a sleepless night. UGH! Let me debate this with myself while I smoke one more Lucky Strike. Seems like a cigarette will make it easier to decide, maybe. Wait! Here’s the thought: I think I will wind down for the night. Take my bedtime medicine and think about sleeping, read for an hour and see how I feel after the pills [Risperdal 6mg, Lamictal 300mg]…Okay, it’s been decided, going to take my meds, drink some water and just read. Going offline, no more chit-chat tonight. Closing my mouth, shutting the pen up, closing the journal, power down and relax. Nothing left to say. This is me saying goodnight and godbless. I’m done until morning, I think. I hope. [12:32Am. END.]
Maybe post this shit in the morning, re-read it with morning eyes and see how ashamed you are of the writing when you wake. Feels okay. Tomorrow will tell. Okay, seriously, that’s all I got left. [12:34Am. END, for real this time.]
[quick update. 8:28Am.]
Knocked off for bed around 1Am and slept up until 6:17Am when a nicotine fit woke me from my slumber. Bought those energy drinks I wanted, and now it’s time to re-read this bullshit and see what I think about it. Time to begin my day.
[9:16Am.]
Going to post this garbage, please don't judge me too harshly. Thanks, and have a good day. Maybe I'll be back later, but who really knows how the pen will feel after its breakfast of little white pills [Buspar 30mg, Wellbutrin 450mg and Ritalin 20mg], maybe he'll still want to talk, or maybe he won't, only time will tell.
Here I am now. Fucking entertain me. [9:21Am. Hot Bed is on the stereo.]
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