14 avril 1976
i hate it here. i hate st. john’s, i hate newfoundland, i hate that running away means running north, always north. it smells like the sea but not that ‘salt-and-wet-clay’ perfume. it’s brine and froth and rotting ambergris and gull shit. i can’t clean my skin of them.
this motel is like a convalescent house. drunkards and whores and screamers and perverts all under one affordable roof. i take my meals alone with the shades drawn. there’s always someone yelling or banging against my wall. new vomit or blood, or both, on the steps every couple of days. ‘hell is empty and the demons are all present,’ or something like that.
one whiskey night i don’t quite recall, i pulled out the typewriter and left myself a note for when i came to. i woke up and read an entire page of ‘i’ll go home someday.’ crumpled it. poor delusional bastard.
i’m all right. i’m all right. i’m all right. i’m all right. i’m all right. i’m all right. i’m all right. i’m leaving in the morning. i’m all right.
—j.
