William Burroughs’ last diary entry [1997] – What is love? Most natural painkiller. What there is.
Good one.
I’ve been writing again and actually not finding enough time to do it, which is actually a good sign.
Interviewer: What about the rest of us? What’s going to save the rest of us?
Gibson: Acceptance.
Good one.
None of it is news, absolutely not, but it is always reassuring to feel validated, affirmed. Gibson said he got the feeling that Burroughs had come to terms with killing his wife in a blackout in Mexico, that, “at the end of his life, he was OK.”
Redemption.
I really thought I was OK today, but I got home, sat down … whacked my head … I am purely fucking enraged on a permanent basis, it seems – seething freaking undercurrents, I’m resentful. That BLOODY old woman’s disapproval is all it is. So … let it wash over one, they say. It ain’t that easy, I have been rather well bloody and truly conditioned. I emailed two places I would like to work. I did a gentle and unproductive job-hunt online too. Any work plus what I’m doing now would be good.
I miss her, I miss her, I MISS her.
We’re making good moves towards involving me more in her life and all of a goddamn sudden the brakes are on from my side and it’s not my motherfucking fault.
I do have loads and loads of faith in the future, for a change, because my lover’s in it. That should help in the interim and who knows, perhaps it is. I never know whether I’d be better under different circs, different medication, different whateverthefuck, I’m so horribly used to monitoring my headspace and it’s frustrating as hell. Conflict feels like a torture chamber. I never know what’s normal and what’s me being over-sensitive or whatever.
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