May 17, 1981

DEBRIEFING: The act of sitting down, starting, finding a middle and then the end. Starting all over again. It's the hardest thing in life to do. A person who isn't creative, someone who doesn't have to create a beginning and carry it through, who picks up from someone else, can't understand the problems. A person uninvolved in creativity can easily be a drug to a person trying to create, sap the strength away from him to use in their own, noncreative acts. The noncreative person can never understand the idea of work that is not enjoyable, work that can lead to antisocial behavior, dependencies, lack of common sense and good diet. Most of all they cannot understand the idea of work that is not primarily for monetary gain.

The other person cannot understand why, when you have set aside the time, or, more likely, stolen the time from them, you are not producing and turning out worthwhile products. Isn't that your intention when you refuse to answer their questions? At least you could have something to show for your time. Perhaps you should just give it up and get a real job.

Something to show for your efforts is a reasonable goal. I'll buy that. So why is it so hard to produce something? If they were capable of grading the work, then maybe I would show them what I've done instead of throwing it away or hiding it under a pile of other somewhats and kindofs and out and out failures.

Why is the act of their sleeping while I'm trying to think about working so irritating to me? If they're asleep they are not conscious and should have no hold on me. But still, they question with their presence. They have to be physically away.

Why, in the week that you were in Bermuda, and the week you were in Miami, and I was alone, my thoughts started acting in sync and my stomach felt healthy and my head no longer hurt and my eyes started to see a little clearer? For all the time you are home you may as well be away. But for those weeks I knew that you would not come home early because traffic was bad or the car broke down. I know I could sit on the bed for hours at a time and smoke cigarettes and think and not fall asleep.

I always put my writing away when I'm done, even though I know you would never read it anyway. I've never known if that was out of respect or lack of interest. The latter I suspect. I read anything left out: notes and phone numbers; junk mail and post cards. But let me leave a phone number on the desk, behind a book or stuck in a pile of other things...THAT you see and question and mentally put away for evidence at the trial where you will finally take the side of your friends and others who cannot see what you see in me.

I know there has not been much to read. My work has not had quality or quantity for at least two years, since we've known each other. I am lazy and I am irrational. My thinking is muddy and my plans are not firm, my ideas are hollow and my goals have not shown their form.

So.

The world will do fine without my work. I may not but it really doesn't matter very much what happens to me. I will keep my mouth shut and manage and not turn into a failure because if one isn't successful the next best thing is to be a known failure. Pitied or laughed at. It's all the same, just as long as they

spell my name right.