May 26. 1999
Study Butte, Texas, USA
10:12am. "Buddy, get off my fucking bed. Piss me off!" Randy scolded his fat black cat.
10:53am. "I fuckn hate being bored! This place is fuckn miserable when there is no breeze," Randy commented on the current situation here inside his trailer. Its 10:55am and too hot to play outside.
"This surgery is going to be a pain!"
"What surgery?" I asked.
"Ive got a deviated septum. I can stick a finger up one nostril and touch the inside of the other side. There is no skin separating the two nostrils."
"Is that from coke?"
"And crystal Meth... speed. It will cost $3000 to get it fixed."
11am. "I got 3 days to kill. I hate killin time. I wish I had some morphine!"
11:30am. Were heading out to expore a cave.
9:57pm. I have a mountain of homework ahead of me-- transforming this pile of scribbled notes and quotes into an organized representation of the events and conversations of the past two weeks.
May 27. 1999
Study Butte, Texas, USA
"Why is youth wasted on the young?" -unknown
"I aint never seen a hearse pulling a Uhaul yet" - Richard.
8:28pm. "That is so profound! The simplest things are the most profound. Say it again." Richard requested.
"Randy does not know what to do with himself," I repeated.
10:55am. Anne just offered me a hit, which I declined, stating that I need to focus on writing my journal. She responded using the word "digress" - a word I was not familiar with until I looking it up in the Oxford dictionary, which Anne keeps handy. To digress... is to... "depart from the main subject in speech or writing."
12:27pm. A chili burrito and 40 minutes of boob tube later, I sit here again at the kitchen table, digressing for my journal, lusting for the wisdom contained in the open book in front of me, Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son. I dont feel like writing. Id rather spend the entire day mending the two large rips in my shorts. Id even rather write about how much I dont want to write - like I am at this time.
Richard and Anne are having a power nap. Its too hot to do anything out side. Flies keep landing on my bare shoulders. I feel clammy-- in need of a shower.
last night I tried to work, but I gave in to Jack and finished off another chapter of On The Road. I am disappointed with Jack. I found the reading difficult at times - due to long run on sentences. Ive never read any Hemingway, but Im told he is famous for his short sentences. I dont know what my style could be described as. I write like I talk. Maybe thats my style.
This would so much easier with a tape recorder, especially recording conversations. I hate having my eyes on the page when people are speaking to me. However, knowing their words will be recorded on tape, some folks may choose them more carefully.
There is no point to this story. There is no plot; just events, conversation and random thoughts.