Zach came over tonight & we watched the 1st episode of Ken Burns’ “Jazz” while we drank Rolling Rock. The show was really good but I’m not thinking so much about that right now. I’m thinking about the way this beer feels in my stomach, and how I’m just a little wobbly, and this feeling. This room is my boat, this room is my cradle. My stereo sings to me, and though it’s not jazz, it has that freedom of jazz. Radiohead and Leonard Cohen and George Shearing. And it’s great watching that with someone, with Zach. I can’t describe it, this feels silly, but it’s like I’m at this moment in my life: growing closer to people here and there. To Andy, to Zach certainly. I know Andy is jealous about my friendship with Zach. He’s told me. And he doesn’t have that with Ken, his ex; they aren’t even speaking. I know I can’t communicate my tenderness to Andy right now. I know he knows it but I hope he’s remembering it even when I can’t articulate it. Zach and I hugged longer than usual tonight & we knew what we meant by that. We meant we were close, maybe closer than we’ve ever been, and damn isn’t it great to be NEAR someone. You just feel that surge for anyone who’s ever meant something important to you, and Zach was hear tonight & that feeling was him and Andy and all therest.

Just me with Zach tonight and the alcohol in us and me remembering last year when our lives were younger, were less formed. Knowing that at this moment, as I type this into my computer & as it flies through wires & gets posted online, right now at this moment my life is young and less formed. And it’s that way until I die. Old age doesn’t exist. Life is a continual beginning of a new part and a new form. I’m always young, this part of me newborn & springing into speech and feeling. This awareness of closeness is threatened by articulation. Aware of my own history, the repetition of NOW. But I hafta write. I hafta try and record it, you know? Even if it’s just cracked poetry tomorrow or cracked poetry to you reading this.

Like the jazz guy, I can’t remember his name, but he turned down an offer from RCA to make a recording in 1916 or something & thereby missed his chance to make the first ever recorded jazz. And now we can’t remember his name. He said no to RCA because he figured that other musicians would hear the record & copy him & steal his stuff. He lost it ’cause of his ego!

I don’t want to lose anything because of that, don’t want my words to sit in my head stillborn like other people’s words that die in there heads everyday, just because “I’m not getting paid” or “It’s not my job.” These words are my job even if I’m not getting paid. I’m not as drunk as I was 5 minutes ago, for sure.