the only thing i can really say in favor of my work is that i try to be
absolutely honest. this doesn't mean things aren't hidden; there are
things i curse myself for daily, hourly, that remain in the dark, that i
try to subvert, repress, rescind. but what is said is the truth as i find
it, which of course is no truth at all. i am a brilliant musician for
example by virtue of being a fraud; i am a selfish friend and lover
perhaps, always on the mend, emending, making amends. i believe others may
be the same, feel the same, scratch away at similar surfaces; for example,
celine was braver than i, perhaps vile to a greater degree. i know where i
stand; like other deluded people, perhaps, if i am so, i revel in my mind,
in the dismal horizon of future discovery which will never come, but
always seems just within reach. if at this point i am a menace to others,
i am a greater menace to myself; if others find me out of tune, i am
almost ready to forego music in favor of a less exacting genre. so i hang
on you, on your every word, so i am ready to hang myself. you are part of
this, the debris i live in, the scuttling or scurrying of thought always
capable of aggrandizement, always close to the suicidal...


(and a thinker -- what i desire the most, what is least likely, among
everything, everyone else!)

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