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quilting
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ever dumbening
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okay, so i know that i already am the universe—the period implies the sentence implies the book implies the library. but i want more. i want to be everyone and everything and all of time and space and know it. i'm not really interested in being god, so much as i'm just digging for a little omniscience. i went to see nikka costa last night over in the city. as i was standing there listening to the lukewarm opening act (after having seen some awful art earlier) and waiting for my friend to arrive, i thought, man, i should've followed my heart and gone into music. (i certainly would've churned about better crap than the stuff i was listening to.) but so then i realized it's partly a matter of just the boundaries of time and space. i want to be able to do it all. and sure i'd love to be great, but i'm just as interested in being shitty, really fucked up shitty. i want to be the man, in the doorway, covered in scabs and urine, in reckless amounts of physical and mental pain. i want to be the monk, mindful, unattached. i want to be the bookie, and his toughs, heart empty, hands full: money and cold hard metal. i want to be the pastor's wife, not the one with all the skeletons and lies and guilt, but the one with purest heart and action. giving, compassionate, because it's like breathing or drinking a glass of water. i want to be the pastor's wife, cheating, stealing, fucking. knocking my stupid kids around. i want to be the writer, full of beauty and doubt. the one who makes no money but spins wonderful yarns. and then the one who writes utter shit and has an endless supply of whores and blow and underground dog fights. i want to be the child who dies for want of food, for want of a country or some love. i want to be the electrician: honest, every day, generous, family, citizen, heart attack, ninety-one. i want to be the bad opening act. i want to be the farmer of nectarines. i want to be the psychotic. i want to be the healer. i want to be the seed. i want to be.
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050803
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egger
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060323
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what's it to you?
who
go
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blather
from
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