What is the blarsted day & date?!
And what does one write about?
About stamping yards all over the countryside, about striking compass bearings, and trespassing on property that one day may become my own?
Must have measured off miles of fence lines, due N & S, due E & W, by this. Powel’s, Walk’s, Peck’s, Culvers’ & Charlie’s. Would like a bit of ground, a little fecund dirt to do with as willed. To grow willy-nilly anything, to bask naked & sensuous. In short to live on and in, to become part and parcel of the ego.
Lena beat it from the pub today. What’s up with Frank? Don resigned last week.
Damn & blarst my eyes! – as a painter. How hard is it to see PROPERLY. To know what one sees, to know where the it one sees is different from the it others see. They must be different, as the whole make up of the one and the other is dissimilar. That is what takes the time, to see, to know and understand what one sees. To learn one’s own seeing. I feel as though a babe, just eye-opened, but without its lack of sophistication. A tired prostituted eye. Sight sold for self.
And blarst my stupid brain that won’t state itself.
And generally blarst everything! Blarst! BLARST! BLARST!
P.S. AND blarst those blarsted moths, big as blarsted fowls.