The Unexpurgated Diary of R. Cody Taylor [entry #four]
What kind of secret feelings did I go through today?
[it’s only 6:30Pm, is this how you will begin?]
People can’t stand much reality, especially my reality, or me. I hide away, isolate, head in a hole.
Goal [4/23/2021]: I must put down every recurrent thought, everything, no matter what. This night, like every other, just write.
Back to those feelings...He’s got the evening, 12 bar blues. He’s been terribly anxious since sometime around 8Am, when he woke up to go into work. His afternoon was a terrible bummer, and now he’s downright depressed. He should be writing, maybe he’s depressed because he’s been so unproductive and useless. All he’s done is smoke cigarettes and drink coffee, eat and masturbate. He no longer knows what to do, he’s bored and blue, sitting in a funk. [6:46Pm.]
[10:20Pm.]
My thoughts are concrete things left back in time...something like 16 minutes ago...How I so long to, as Ginsberg said, tip my mit...that’s why I write...perhaps these words are like going crazy...Did I just have a revelation? It’s doubtful.
[10:26Pm.]
I feel so sick and unhappy. Act out. Think with trepidation, even nervously. It really doesn’t matter because I don’t really matter. No one cares about the thoughts of a Nobody who has the blues, the 65536 doldrums, ho-hum, hum-drum, banality of a boring, do-nothing, life in a nowhere town. And my leg’s cramped and I can’t think straight. I came to this page alone and with a burden on my back. I will remain alone for the rest of the night, and all of tomorrow.
[10:30Pm.]
This poor and meager diary, these unexpurgated thoughts, which later will seem to be nothing, they're so much a part of my world, this seems to be sufficient, and okay, and besides, what else do I got to do? Not much, and mostly nothing important.
[10:36Pm.]
I hate fast cars...they’re so depressing, going round and round...or some such shit heard on my stereo. A Buzzcocks record on the player, I turn-up, tune-out, drop a load of bullshit on this page. I get no reply, don’t you see? No! No, no, No!
[10:39Pm.]
This might be a short night, early to bed and not much done with my day...running out of steam. Maybe I need some caffeine, I’m out, but could go buy some from the gas station down the road, go to Kum-N-Go.
[10:41Pm.]
Too High to Die: Meat Puppets. New record spinning. Able to explode! This is so bland and boring, so dismal and dull. Am I repeating myself from the other night? Feels as if I am. Road trips through open holes. Out rushes the night...lines on the radio. I got nothing tonight.
[10:45Pm.]
[guitar solo.] I think I’ll run off and get a caffeinated beverage. See if, when I come back home, I can remember, or think of, something to write about. Down the road we can see the electric chair...one more radio line. Never to be found. [guitar solo.]
[10:47Pm.]
I got nothing but time. Be back later. Sparks fly from my eyes. What? I exit through the front door and dash-off to my car, put it into gear and I’m gone. Be back later.
[11:06Pm.]
Been A Son was the song playing as I drove to Kum-N-Go in the pouring rain. Bought two cans [20oz.] of sugarfree Red Bull and a Java 300 Monster. I’d like to be awake, up until 2:13Am. What I want out of this is to get some of the shit loosened up in my head, kick out the jams and see what happens as the night progresses back into the AM hours. [sound of jangly guitars.]
[11:21Pm.]
This is a lie, only not a lie. By the time you read this I might die. Does that mean something? I pry open my brain and a sentence flies out...Something I wish was called poetry taking flight out of the hole in my head. Floats.
[11:22Pm.]
When you turn your back, I pullout my flask, take a sip while you’re not looking. Everyone thinks we’re perfect, please don’t look through my curtains. You might see the real me...I sit in my recliner and pick my nose. Places! Places! You know what I am, and I want to call it poems. No! All I want to sound like is what I’m always becoming, a hackneyed writer of pathetic prose. I fool myself. And damn! If these walls could talk, what the hell would they have to say? All my dirty secrets, like the tiny size of my tiny dick. O! No! Shouldn’t have divulged that fact.
[11:28Pm.]
In South 65536 a man hangs himself from the shower curtain, autoerotic. I watch the car burn, do I care about any of this? Probably not. Leg cramps. If I could get to sleep by now...No! No! Not going to sleep, at least not until after 2Am. I sip from my Red Bull [first can]…And I’ll sit and watch the car on the corner burn. Let the motherfucker burn, we don’t need no water.
[11:32Pm.]
I got nothing left but my aching soul. Do you still love me? I asked. Her reply: Absolutely not! No! You’re longer beautiful, you’ve gotten fat, and you smell awful.
Dear Lord, bless this failure. All that grace couldn’t save my soul. And now what’s left to say?
[11:36Pm.]
Drinking like the world will END, has it? Hey! Wait! I got another complaint. That’s why I’m making headlines [you stole that from some POP STAR, didn’t you, which one?]…Secretly he’s a savior. I’m thinking about death, and how I’ll die and you’ll die, and how I’ll probably die sooner rather than later, maybe tonight in my sleep. That’d be a way to go, just don’t wake up. Maybe I shouldn’t go to sleep and if I don’t sleep, well, then I won’t die...He lives to be 89, the next day...DEAD! [commercial break: Dunkin Donuts.]
[11:42Pm.]
That motherfucker poured me down the drain. No! I’m not high, not even drunk. Just extremely caffeinated and deranged. I never take the blame. You can’t wake [or sleep]…No! This is NOT a dream. The voices won’t leave me alone and I hear dogs bark in the distance. This no longer makes sense. Get my pretty name out of your mouth [stolen from another POP Darling, right?]…FULL STOP! Make sense, pull it back in. Damn! I think, therefore I am, and I’m not thinking straight. A jumble of nasty notions. [pull yourself together, man!] I need to straighten this out, what else to say? The moon hangs in the sky, God’s toenail. Don’t look twice, it’s all goddamn lies.
[11:56Pm.]
Re-reading this. Need to see where I’ve gone wrong. I’ve only got one shot to say it, and to say it straight, say what? I feel like an outsider. I don’t fit in. This small town keeps me on the outer limits, no longer wanted. Wish I were high on legal marijuana, it’d be a break from my brain. I’ve been too close to it lately, no longer detached and dreamy. Things are too close and incredibly loud. Brain burns, drowning in flames. [11:59Pm.]
BASS DROP!!! [tomorrow just became today...12:01Am.]
I don’t think I’m handling this too well. I feel so scattered. My brain’s in a rush to get nowhere fast. Sorry. Sorry? There’s no way out. Tonight I will NOT go past 5 of these diary pages.
Call my friends, tell them to all get fucked. Aggressive. Angry. Becoming Anxious [he's Anxiety is a proper noun, it deserves a capital letter]. The dread is back. It’s because everything is moving so fast...it all blurs. Make small-talk. I’m bored. I do this for the $$$, not the thrill of it. This is not a new artform, this is lousy. STOP!
My head’s filling up, fast, too fucking fast. Everything’s so speedy. I smile out of fear, and go to the kitchen for a glass of water before I fall apart. You can watch from your window.
[12:08Am.]
Me and God don’t get along. Eating mango and listening to Lana Del Rey. Wish I had a cigarette, decided to quit this morning. Probably won’t last. Singing: Fuck yeah!
[12:11Am.]
Beginning to reconsider the whole: I’m going to stay awake until 2:13Am bullshit. But it’s doubtful I’ll be able to sleep without a kill me pill, my sleeping pill, Trazodone. Another POP song on the radio...do re mi/I pray the Lord my soul to keep. [borrowed from the tune playing now, right?]
THIS HAS ENDED! [12:16Am. he's going off to bed, pops that pill.]
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