sat 8 nov
AND ON IT GOES. THE FEDERAL MASTURBATORS WILL NOT GIVE ME AHOME.
and of course i have a federal masturbator sitting beside me right this minute. agent bob. they have all been getting orgasmically high on catching and killing mafiosi at my expense, dangling me on the streets like shark chum, for eight fucking months. and across the way sits little bitch sharon, a towny who's making money off my misery (there are MANY of these) by helping to protect me. sharon and i were never enemies or anything like that, but we were never friends either. she can traipse around the streets all day in protection-colored costumes and get paid for helping to protect me, but she can't converse with me in public or let me sleep on her couch or help me in any other way. anyway, agent bob. as FEDS go, he's one of the least disgusting. i've never heard him burp or fart, or seen him hawk and spit, and he doesn't ever mooch food or cigarettes from me or openly insult me, the way so many agents do. nor has he ever exposed any of his body parts, the way some like to do. he's one of the least obnoxious of the agents protecting me, and i give him credit for that, but nonetheless he is, to me, just another fascist, just another abuser. meeting him in other circumstances, i might have liked bob. but as it is, sitting here beside this abuser i just want to reach over and scratch his fucking eyes out.
I said a long time ago that i was reading rebecca goldstein's Properties of Lght, the only book i've been able to read since my animals were taken away. well, six weeks later, i'm still reading it. reading is very hard. anyway, some things i like...
at the beginning of the book, justin says: "I am a thing that hates."
at the end he says: "I am a thing that loves."
the truth is that he is both. he is a thing that both loves and hates dana. i am the same. i love to such a huge degree the animals that were stolen from me on Marcch 11, and all the animals of my life before that day, and the ones who are my friends in the park that the FBI has given me, the innocent one, for a home. and at the same time i hate to such a huge degree my fellow man, and my country, and all law enforcement. and in MY case, the word "thing" is particularly appropriate: my country and my townspeople and just everyone have all decided that I AM NOT A HUMAN BEING, I AM A THING.
and still from goldstein, here is what i'm doing when i go to the canal, or the river, or to the neighborhoods where i lived with my animals: "drinking in memories of long-gone light."
