The Diary of Michael Thompson

Deary Diary - 1/23/74

(continued from previous diary entry of Michael Thompson:)

17. Jen is a Juniper
Jen is a 23rd Degree Mason Jar;
Jen is my 23rd
lover.

T=Libra...for this cycle at least

18. Official Member
of the (crossed out)
Hat Club: (crossed out)

X____(crossed out signature)_______

82nd and Glisan
Mult. Bible College
Drew, Chris, and Josh

19. And I Digress...











-------------------------

(next page, numbers are all colored with this scheme:

1 = White
2 = Yellow
3 = Blue
4 = Pink
5 = Green
6 = Orange
7 = Red
8 = Pale Yellow
9 = Burnt Orange)

January 23rd, 1974

20. (crossed out) may NOT be
my lover













22. M5D6G7
M^7
Rite of Shauna

23. 5087638342THE PARABLE OF
PENTAGON POND

(in this section the size of the writing varies drastically, with words taking up half a page to words being so small they are barely legible:)

FREDDIE THE FROG WAS CONFUSED...DID LILY OF THE LILLYPADWISHT O SEE
HIM SUFFER?WAS LILLY THE
ARCHETYPAL MOTHERGODESS
OF THE POND ORTHE SAD ISTICSATYROF THE
emerald moss? he knew thehopw as first attempt
BY HIS FROG TRIBE ; IF HE MADE THE HOP, HE WOULD
EXPERIENCE SUCCESSS, BUT IF HEFELL SHORT, HE MIGHT
FALL PREY TO THE BEAK OF THE CARNIVOROUS
CRANE. WAS IT LILLIE'S INTENSION TO TEMPT HIS EXPANSIONIST/
PIONEERING IDEALISM TOWARD A CRUEL
FATE? WAS SHETHE AMPHI
BIOUS EQUIVALENT OF THE SIRENS of homer? PERHAPS SHE JUS
T WISHED TO SEE HIM FAIL; SHEHADBEE NKNOWN

----------------------------------------------------------------

(next page)

to enjoy the pain of her subordinates. shehad
CROSSED THE POND FIVE TIMES (LIKE THE
RESURRECTED NATE THE GRATE OF ASSYRIA)
AND ONE ON ONCASIONE AFTER SEVENTEEN
consecutive sylized leaps, attainedamphidienlightanmi
NT/ "salumination" IF YOU, spf
wygaqbi
rfhb...
when you
ease into it
i g a f a i y
a g a bj!

You He Thou She
the
half
existant
ONE

hand to this page
eyes intake
imbibe for sake of said
MAISONic degree
a house of report cards
collapses
names invert
like the blobfish surfacing
all pressure lost

so as your hand heeds this page,
little aspirant one,
beware a YELLOW (<--written in pink) doom
that awaits

-it can be prevented, Lady Madonna:
don't you touch a drop of brandy-
BEING A HOMOSAPIEN (OR NEOFOIBUS
OR NEOPHILBUSS), ARE UNFAMILIAR WITH
THE CONCEPT, LET ME EXPLIN: AMPHILLUMINATION
IS THE POINT WHEN THE WHEN THE WATER-DWE
LLER who is chuckie baudrillair?
who is alexis?

"I feel kind of
chewed up and spit
out... I think now
is the time to focus
on other aspects of
life." - Blessed Be The Andy B.
(they ripped his heart out)

Who bears the Stone of the
Seahorse? Is it you?
AND THE LAND DWELLER
BECOME ONE PHYSICALLY AND SPIRITUALITY.
AT THIS HOLY MOMENT IN HER LIFE, LILY
BECOME CAPABLE OF BREATHING THE
water and drinking the air.

to find out how, thurn the page....

(and put it back)

(Transcriber's note: The date written for this entry is January 17th with no specified year. Underneath this date is written January 23rd in another handwriting. The page is covered in 17 cent stamps and the name SEAN is written vertically in bold green crayon. The layout of the words on the page is a series of spirals and waves, with text growing and shrinking in size.)

Yoo Hee Though She
You-Hoo!
pappa
pedre
pedro
peder
peda
pedia
pedanta
vedanta
vendetta
vendor
endor
onedoor
don'topenthatdoor,
sean don't openthat
door seandontopen that door
sean don't open that door sean
that door that door seandoor dont
seansdaor dont opean's dad don't open
THAT DOOR OPEN SESAME
Shaman Gee

(this next line is written vertical in the margin beside the text above:)

i am that i am but for her

(and at the bottom of the page:)

i am who i am
HE THAT SHALL BE KNOWN AS the halfselfexistant one

(on the next page, written all in crayon, with each letter always drawn in the same color; green S's, blue W's, etc.:)

Dear Diary,

WILLING
(very small print:) 1445. activate.
SUBMISSION

I am a sleeper agent for the CIA
a GCOS Adept,
from POLY to MONO
in one minute!!!


om5*=6*SMetJJIA23"smetJJ
OM5*=6SMetJJIA23"^5etMJSMetJJetBWSMJJLL266JJLLLCIASD

(and in the corners of the page going from top left, clockwise, to upper left:)

Vu

L

V

L

Vu

Br

K

(and onto the next page:)

MAYFIELD'S MAYFLIES

Six Swords behind
The page of Fives
and just One Cup
For You and Eye

God is in Everyone
You, her, him,
CIA, DEA, FBI
God is in Everything

Jeniferr the Juniper
MASTER OF THE RIGHT HAND PATH
Decoded the Arad
With her Wingtips on

Let us fool Ourshelves
Simply:
Let fools fill the Left,
In a million years you
will
never touch me

Six Swords to SMI*LEs
and SEVEN for Sex
and Nine are of the Past

0 0

So break free the Bond
of Ten and Ten
And Nine will surely Come
(and in the end is Three vs. Three vs. Three)

Dear Diary,

All of that Sean's Dad stuff is out of my head now. I don't understand. Can alcohol cause such states or am I maybe epileptic. I don't have health insurance (another problem related to the lack of respect a lowly common dishwasher gets... but much more on this later), so I can't just get some meds for this.

So very strange. I'm taking a break from drinking for a while. Maybe even lay off the pathetic wine and spooning nights with Jen. She's been very busy with work lately, anyway.

I think I might start a juice fast, I read something about it in a Reader's Digest I found on the bus. For the last few months, my health has definitely been my last priority. Even though I'm young, this kind of shit catches up with a person. In fact it's lucky that I am young, so I can stop it early.

You know, once upon a happier time, I used to atually et out and about quite a bit. Before drinking was every day's first priority, I would frequent several great breakfast establishments and even flirt (SUCCESFULLY! They smiled back!) with people other than Jen (various waitresses). This one girl, Erin, a beautiful redhead who worked at my favorite diner, the Overbite, used to give me the eye every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday morning. Sometimes on Monday evenings, too. She liked me. I was definitely her favorite regular. I once even gave her a coupon for a free drink at the Fallopian along with her tip. What a SMOOTH CRIMINAL I used to be. Ugh, USED to be.

Well... I haven't had a drink all day and although it may only be 5 PM, that's still pretty impressive for me. Must make a million resolutions: stop drinking, stop smoking (which I really only while drinking), stop hanging on Jen's every whim, cut out meat, cheese, get my potassium from bright yellow banannas, socialize with people other than Jen, go for a bike ride (get the bike first, Mike... a nice blue bike), get over my fear of lightning, man-made structures immsersed in deep forbidden indigo water (bridges, docks, shipwrecks), small organic clusters, fried chicken, natural disasters, my relatives, sexually-oriented advertising, walking behind people who are slower than me and not knowing how to walk past them, taking the initiative, cured meats (I don't care what anyone says, it's UNcooked if it hasn't touched a tangerine flame, insects, shallow breathing, potential heart-attacks, expiration dates, being nude, lead, bleach, squirrels, blue cheese, blood, birth, kiwis (the fruit, not the animal), mayonaisse, public transportation, algebra, not know what time zone I'm in, people with intense acne-scarring, Jen.




That last one's going to be the hardest to get over.

Last night we broke some boundaries I never dreamed we would. I went down on her (the all the creepy reverence of the unworthy kneeling before an altar) and in the morning we woke up to saffron light through the sheets upon our naked bodies. It dawned on my in that beautiful moment that we were in HER bed, not mine. HER bed, which had always been a sacred and unreachable domain to me... I don't see myself making too much progress, in my quest to get over Jen, anytime soon.

Equally terrible:
All but the minority, "rational" part of my brain is completely convinced that tommorow we'll make it and by the weekend we'll be married. She actually awfully nice to me in the morning and not the least bit awkward. She dressed herself slowly while I kissed her shoulders and she even bought me breakfast at Howard Johnson's then gave me a ride to work.

I can barely work. I keep daydreaming about slowly waking up beside her; the back of my hand touching her belly-button. Her eyes slowly opening without the slightest trace of regret... a slow, sincere, beautiful smile.

Dear Diary,

I AM SEAN'S DAD. I have no idea what this is about. What? I don't understand what this is supposed to mean, but it's burning in my brain like a great emerald fire. Actually it's emerald when you look AT it, but a deep forest green with a burning eclipse of yellow when you look away.... no wait, now it's chartreuse!!!

What the hell is this?!? I have never used the word chartreuse to describe something. I am Sean's dad???

I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Sean's Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad I am Seans Dad


I AM SEANS DAD!!!

Who the fuck is Sean? I'm no one's dad! Or if I was I would have found out by now. YES! It has been THAT long! What the hell is this fire in my skull?! I spent an hour shaking my hands in front of my face while making explosion sounds. I didn't feel as though I was in control there; I was on some psychotic autopilot. Jen was horrified/fascinated. When I snapped out of it she was staring at me with a crazed/scared/adoring look (I don't really know how you can combine those three looks, but she did). I wasn't really there, in a sense... what the FUCK is going on?!? My hands are shaking so much I can hardly write. I am Sean's dad.






SEAN'S DAD? AHHH!

Dear Diary,

A latticework is unfolding, the air is too hot to breath ("Breathing heated air in conjunction with consumption of alcohol is capable of causing unconciousness"). Somewhere on this lattice are microscopic points of light, one is Jen (pale lilac light), one is me (pale yellow light), and one is green and unnamed. I must lean backwards or simply lower myself to a crawling position to escape this heat.

"more than a feeling."

I smell horrible, like corn and feet. My manager threatened to fire me because I was late four days in a row. How do I tell her I'm slipping out of regular time and therefore can barely read my own watch anymore? Well... I can't. That sounds like crazy-talk. It IS crazy-talk.

But what is crazier that crazy-talk? Being taken seriously for it. That's one of those things in life that prevent a complete outbreak of craziness. A little safegaurd that works like this:

"Blah blah blah crazy-talk blah blah"

"Man, that's crazy-talk."

So the former now realizes that he sounds crazy and may begin to seek help or perhaps (more likely, actually) keep it to himself. Sometimes that safegaurd slips, however, like with Jen. When I share this kind of talk with Jen it opens up a whole pandora's box of her own insane ramblings. These are mad tangents I had never even heard before. It's kind of charming in an odd way.

"It feels like the very first time."

Directly above the couch at Jen's there is a small settlement of pretty large spiders. They are positioned directly above the pillow on which my head falls when I lie down. The couch is actually a chaise lounge (one of those French deals that only has a back on one side- like a therapist's couch), so I can only rest my head at one end. It doesn't matter, however, as they are not bothering me since I have just been introduced (by the oh so lovely, hip Jen) to the greatest band ever... BOSTON!!!

Their song, "Party" puts me in the most amazing mood, the lyrics are so simple, but so catchy, and so... so TRUE!

"Well you know I dont get off on workin day after day
I wanna have some fun while Im here
I play the game when its goin my way
And theres nothin like a party when its kickin into gear"

Wow. Ah, I don't even get that into music, but man this album is incredible. Even the album COVER is genius! There's a spaceship with a city inside it (I'm assuming Boston) and it's taking off for space and it's got a crazy green flame coming out of it while the EARTH EXPLODES BENEATH IT!!!

"Baby
Its a party and nobody cares
What were doin there
Baby, its a party as long as youre there
Its a party, party, party!"

Wild! For some odd reason it makes me think of Jesus, ha!, I have no idea why, but there's something Jesus-y about this band. My hands get all twitchy when I listen to them or look at their funky spaceship. Jen turns into the virgin Mary and the room fills with green light.

"You know a man doesnt live on bread alone
Hes got to have some lovin each and every night
And a womans got to have it if the truth be known
Lets get together honey, its alright"

It'll be ALL RIGHT! Let the truth be known! I shall not live on bread alone!



A spider is now dangling above me, about to descend on a line of fine silk. I think I will open up my mouth and EAT HIM!

11/11/73

Dear Diary,

Jen's got a gun. Some guy, ex-boyfriend, I think, gave her a pistol. I know nothing about guns, so I couldn't even describe it to you. All I know is that it's very aggressive-looking and ugly, like all guns. She thinks it's cool and likes to drink with it and take pictures of bottles of booze next to it. It's fucking idiotic. Rarely does Jen's behavior spark this kind of criticism from me, but this is just stupid.

In an odd twist, all this gun excitement has lead to her calling me all the time and (once again: totally spineless me)... I'm sleeping over every night.


11/23/73

Dear Diary,

Woke up this morning with an intense hangover (nothing new there) at Jen's apartment, on her couch. Last night we listened to Alice Cooper together, hugging tightly and resting a jug of cheap wine in the nook created by our intertwined legs. At one point I kissed her ear and the side of her mouth. She got strange and put her fingers in my mouth during the song, "Eighteen". She would look me in the eye, while I tried to contemplate her digits tickling my teeth, and just smile eerily. Then she put on some blues record by a guy called Leadbelly... she loves that stuff.

It's 11 am and I am already drunk. She woke me up with a glass of wine and a beer, saying, "Breakfast, darling?"

10/10/73

Dear Diary,

I don't have anything to write about, but I feel obligated to write something. Things have been pretty bland and routine. I have not been depressed or particularly elated, just very mellow. I see Jen every now and then, but only during the day and we haven't gotten together to drink wine or anything lately. Work is mediocre, nobody really bothers me much. I think I might go for a walk, it's warm and sunny out... plus the leaves have have just begun to change colors; a great combo.

Absolutely! That's my problem - cabin fever. As it starts to get darker earlier, my motivation to leave the house is gradually slaughtered. My enthusiasm and confidence are always bled dry by the very season I call my favorite. I need fresh air and sunshine while fall is still friendly. I must squeeze every last bit of sunshine from these shortening days.


10/24/73

Dear Diary,
Im drunk. SHAZAM! CaptMarvel, the southern Superman has just turned me on to the Pryamids. I don't know Im drunk I love jen like a sister. A sister I would sleep with. sleep with on top a pyramid.

11/7/73

That last entry is a tad embarrassing (not like this whole journal's not embarrassing!). I picked up a couple extra shifts at my work and have been generally avoiding Jen. She's bad for my health, I have decided, physical and mental. She's an alcoholic, I might not even be one, but I am a Jen-aholic, which leads (guilt by association) directly to alcoholism. So if I want to quit drinking, I have got to quit Jen.

As I write this, I am drinking. Wine. White wine; nobody likes white wine but me. I don't know why, but to me, red wine tastes like balsamic vinegar. Frankly, I prefer the vinegar.

So maybe I am an alcoholic, after all, even without Jen's influence.

God, I miss her.

Dear Diary,

The heat wave has finally broken.  For last three days, this city has seen the most unrelenting thunderstorms.  I have never witnessed anything like this before.  The sky is fucking GREEN right now!   Apparently, a couple of tornadoes were spotted downtown (unheard of) yesterday evening and one of them tore the roof off a True Value!  I can only pray that it  meandered it's way up to the East Side, destroying the decadent homes and property of our fair city's Old Rich.  That would indeed be a miracle.

Right now, amidst the chaos, I am drinking the most delicious barleywine, a bottle of which was given to me by Jen for my birthday.  It boasts something absurd like 13%.  She can be really considerate, sometimes.

This storm stirs in me something primal.  Perhaps it's just adrenaline, but multi-branching lightning illuminating an emerald sky, while wind whips water off the ground like tumbleweed...  well, that kind of shit really really blows this mundane routine I call a "life" away to make room for something irrational, animalistic... revelatory.

What am I writing?!  I feel completely crazy.  This is not something I would ever talk about openly.  It's a strange urge to confess something.  As I'm in denial of some sinister plot or betrayal, as if I forced myself to forget so that I could... follow through(?)

Whoa.  I don't know.  It's just like that August entry where I felt "unstuck"... it's happening all over again, or is it the barleywine?  Ah, I don't know.  Everything has become very confusing.  

And steeped in thick oily green.



It feels as if, somehow, somewhere along the way, I became a fiction...

... to make way for someone REAL(?)

September 24th, 1973


Dear Diary,

Artists! Who are these people? Who has the fucking gall to go around claiming to be the UBER-general, all-encompassing, epitome-of-pretension... "ARTIST"?!?

Assholes, that's who.

Last night was fucking miserable. Well, minus a few bittersweet moments of personal triumph whenever I got a sharp remark in on these little douchebags. I was all revved up and excited because Jen had invited me out, until the moment of deflation when I realized this party was just going to be a bunch of Art Consortium brats. The Art Consortium is the local, most-expensive, bullshit "ART"-school in the city. This is where all the trust-fund nothings go and learn how to pretend that they matter. All in all these types of schools churn out a million critics for every actually talented individual.

Anyways, I was talking to this one girl, while Jen walked floated from person to person, charming and flirting and schmoozing (three skills I have never really developed) and somehow the subject of who I arrived with came up. She seemed to have a slight disdain for Jen, due to some catty girl politics I know nothing about, I am sure. The usual sticky issue of whether or not Jen and I are a couple reared it's ugly head and I skated around it moving into a vaguely defensive stance by describing what I really liked about Jen.

"You should see her apartment," I told her, "The floor is just covered with coloring books, crayons, Lincoln Logs, and half-finished origami. She just plays! I fucking love that!"

This "Artist" obviously did not share my enthusiasm.

"Oh," she sighed, "I've seen that before at the Consortium. The whole childhood art installation. Somehow I don't really buy it."

Buy it? BUY IT? BUY WHAT?! What is there to fucking buy? We aren't selling anything, so put your money away. WE - LIKE - TO - HAVE - FUN. Period. Plain and fucking simple, and you might too, if you hadn't been brainwashed by your precious Consortium into becoming a mechanical, trend-based, uninspired, cynical, clinical, sterile... DULL... "ARTIST."

I bet William Blake played with stuff. I bet this girl had never heard of William Blake before the Consortium. I bet they dissected him in one of her classes like a fucking frog and, after they sucked the life out of all of his beautiful works, moved on without any emotional impact.

----------------------------------------------------------------------


Now the bittersweet: Jen got drunk before I did. She kept leaning on me and saying, "Oh... Mike..." Later, she began to wrestle with me, an a strange back-to-back, elbow battle, which included a healthy dose of punches from her to me. For someone so petite, she can leave a pretty respectable bruise. I will say enjoyed, since it was obviously (or not obviously, or not logically, or not at all... since I am pathetically obsessed) sexual tension being expressed.

Maybe.

I love Jen.