48 degrees today. It feels warm in the clothes strewn squalor of the bedroom, light and heat cutting through the plastic on the window. Everything reminds me of something else. PD talked about a graduate school advisor last night, P---n, a defender of modernity and the prevailing social order. Any attempt to go beyond, know beyond traditional institutions of the family, state, and university are essentially futile - The Problem of Modernity. Reminds me of C. the Nietzsche scholar and how we both
Helping my mother read poetry for a college course. "It doesn't make sense," she says. A poem about green chiles. Virile, youthful, powerful, beautiful chiles. The poet thrusts his blade into the chile, mouth hot with lust. -My mother has always cooked out of cans. The poet had spent five years in a maximum security prison. An orphan at a young age. "All writers are paranoid schizophrenics!," my mother says with a laugh - the same knowing laughter that erupts when she says something outrageous.