weird, weird evening. seems so usual, so unusual. not esp. weird to still be drinking, drinking since six-ish, not feeling all that drunk but still being literally shocked to find that the red sign in the hallway for dodgeball says 'january'-- fuck, it's january-- however, it is weird, as tonight was the first time someone younger than me, someone we took out with us, sits over a cigarette with me and says that my work's really changed them. it may sound cheesy from me, but she made it very believable. inciting writing in others, who knew. i mean, i dig when i hear someone say, 'it's bigger than you,' but fucking hell do i dig when i'm staring straight at a younger faced myself, speaking shit i've certainly said, speaking shit about how amazing my poems are, blah blah. i mean, it isn't the compliment itself here that's significant. it's the impact going on without my knowing. i've got my proof; and we all know how i need my proof. don't make no diff what you say if i ain't felt it. you're lucky, too, if i can feel what you say. but this one vibrated some heartbone deep in the chest, you know? i was shook. erica even said it out loud, 'and you're like a younger R.' when the shit's not even being squeezed out of your own mouth, and you swear it should be, the disjunct in situation is just too odd not to pay complete attn to. an essay on my poem, poems from my poems. what a pen of fucking rabbits, as one might say.

goddammit i love red wine. i'm finishing the bottle too; never let a cabsau down yet. ain't gunna.

turns out this wk has been strangely satisfying. my work has not only led to frantic dancing, frantic joy, frantic crying, and frantic napping-- it's there standing outside me; it's watching me as i sleep [drunk], it's making records of my dreams.