The Cambridge Chronicles

I could not sleep last night. Maybe it was the Chocolate Orgasm from Rosie's. Or the vaporizer being on all night. Its been very dry. I thought it would help to have more water in the air. Or maybe it was my existential anxiety about life. I thought, we come into existence. We become aware of ourselves. Then we disappear forever. What does that mean? It must be things like this that turn people to being religious. To have an explanation for those kinds of feelings. They come over me a lot lately. This feeling of pure existence. The fear of not being any more. Of going poof! I continue to struggle with anxieties about becoming a success. I've had a fever for about three weeks. I thought it might have something to do with the last months turmoil. Then another idea. It stopped for a few days. It might be related to my having a can of coke during my classes at MIT. I haven't had any for just over a week. Then it stopped.

No writing for over a month. And why not? I don't really know. Maybe it is the prospect of having to write about a lot of things that make me uncomfortable. Things have been very busy. But its really some sort of resistance. I want to do it. I think about it a lot. I've even made lots of notes this last month. They are all written in a tiny notebook that I carry all the time. I thought of just trying to write the history of the last month to overcome the block. Not even that helped. It didn't get done. And now I think, why not just write down all the little notes I've made? Another resolution was to write a least one page a day no matter what. To just put paper in the typewriter and go to it. Unconscious writing. It shouldn't be too hard to babble on for a page a day. Then the next resolution was to write a page a day for the next month. Just to see if I could do it. Its really December 2, 1981, 1:16am, and I'm not even doing the simple task of writing a page a day. I've got to finish this page, plus two more just to be caught up. Now its coming over me again. This hesitation about what to do next. Sometimes it doesn't matter. Just do something. Of course, that's not always the appropriate thing to do. But it can't be a bad policy with writing. That word, policy. I still remember an incident from my childhood. about 3rd or 4th grade. It was Lorna Anno. I was in love with her. Maybe that's why its still in my memory. She mispronounced the word. She said something like the word police, with an e, as in tea, on the end, poe-lee-see! I was nervous about having to say the word myself, as I was uncertain about how to pronounce it. The feeling, the anxiety about having to say the word is still clear in my mind and body. It comes over me even now when thinking about it.

I sit here, trying to think of what to write next. It is a good model of my life. What should I do next? Meanwhile I continue to sit here and spend my consciousness time allotment. A little of it is used up each moment. It is better spent doing something. That's not exactly how I mean to say it. I have to stop and catch myself. I'm carried away with fantasies about fucking on FH.