I wish I could write in this fucking thing without the fear of it being read or fucking published one day. Hell, I’m not that famous. Who the fuck cares anyway? I’ll probably be dead by then, so it won’t really matter. Unless my kids find this shit embarrassing … .
I wish I were in San Francisco, in the Sunset district. I remember going there once with G. I got so much sand in my shoes. He had a skateboard, and we were walking on the beach. I felt so much older than him, but part of me didn’t … . Boy, did I blow him off. I remember he was so poor, as poor as I used to be. He was so dirty. He was so sweet. I didn’t like him, though – not like that. Maybe for a minute, but it went away … Right now I wish I had a little apartment in San Francisco. I wish I wasn’t doing what I was doing. No, that’s wrong. I like doing what I’m doing – I just don’t like parts of it. Classic, huh? This sounds so classic: actors bitching and moaning about wanting to be like everybody else. But if they were, they’d just want to be movie stars. I can live how I want. That’s that. No one put this wall up. No one else knelt down around me and laid the bricks. I did it myself. That’s why I’m so exhausted. Or is it just jet lag?
I love this line in Tom Waits’ “San Diego Serenade”: “Never felt my heart strings till I nearly went insane.” I’m having a beer. Oh, fucking boy! Isn’t that exciting? It actually is, if you think about it. For me, at least. These are things I never do because I think too much. I think ahead. I think behind. I think sideways. I think it all. If it exists, I’ve fucking thought of it.