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i wish i could say that by willfully turning my back on art, my relationship with writing improved exponentially. i can't say that, because it isn't so. in fact, i have largely squandered the years since 911 (my 42nd birthday), although i sired a pretty boy, now 7 years old, with whom i have spent little or no time in the past year and a half—ever since i decided that his mother treated me like a really tiny piece of shit and so abandoned overnight the family mirage i had so ineffectually and fruitlessly endeavored to grow over 7 years prior. with no plan, emotionally drained, i wander the hudson river valley—from nyc to the mountains south of albany and back—a ghost with no spirit, dreaming of all the failures that got in the way of building a utopia i never really gave any practical attention.

i imagine writing but was again rejected by the grant orgs i applied to this year. i need steady shelter, healthy sustenance to solidify my purpose and use all the magic at my disposal to avoid seeking the professional help everyone else knows i need. i am seeking a tribe that doesn't turn its back on me the way it will turn its back on all these people as they get older and are deemed in need of professional help. no one needs professional help—to suggest as much is a cop-out, as if the gainful pursuits of individual material security may be guaranteed while espousing the every man for himself ideology, as if individual responsibility was not about collective participation, as if psychology's role as capital's ever-faithful lackey might be seen as anything else...

believe it or not, i have positive solutions. it's these i really need the time to develop, and i cannot develop them while battling the crumbling social contract. i am trying to write a better one,  one that has disparate seeds, but no total paradigm, not even in the texts of m. vaneigem.  i should not say it is impossible to write about the smell of roses while consigned to live upon a dung heap. indeed, what more fertile ground could one demand? but winter is winter, and the spring i see is unlike any other seen by man, woman, or child. and yet, it could hardly be any easier to attain. it practically grows itself, right up from under our soles, flattened as they are by gravity and the indeterminate wait...

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