This morning I woke up and discovered interrobang had gotten some work done last night on the paintings he'd begun. Similarly, I wrote about a page of James, of the Desert, the serial I'm working on. Already I've thought of half a dozen ways to condense that one page into half the space, or conversely, how I might draw it out a bit more.
It only reinforces what I've known for years, at least, and others have pointed to, as well: working as an artist is satisfying only when work is getting done; to use what approaches a fatuous platitude, the best way to wash the dishes is to wash the dishes; and I am utterly responsible for my own frustrations when I neglect to pursue that which brings me joy.
Writing, for me, has long been a way to sort and explore, to make sense of English, and to know myself. It's only logical that if I seek to indulge my insatiable selfishness, I must continue to seek solace in the pen, the paper, the processor, whichever.
What continues in paramount importance is that the dishes get washed. Because I hate dirty dishes.


I don't want to sound conceited, but it's mine if I want it. Just got off the phone.

Band practice tonight for Polkapocalypse, then I think I'll hang around the apartment, try and get something written. Or maybe just bead. My current beadwork project is a beaded bracelet and bolo tie for a wedding present, his-and-hers type thing.
I've always thought well-beaded jewelry is beautiful, especially when you create things that are normally not made out of beads. Right now I'm using a peyote stitch to make what is essentially a rope of beads. Pretty neat stuff.
At least it keeps me from watching the tele all the time.


(I got an email response; very terse, but I know the fellow in question to be this way most of the time). I've got that giddy feeling.

It's just a guess, but I'd bet real dollar$ that Barbara Walters looks like hell in real life. I don't mean to dis her, because I think *some* of the work she does is important. But why do they shoot her through gauze?
I watched the infamous Monica Lewinsky interview, and if you didn't, you're a sorry sucker. In short, it ruled.
But they shot the thing through gauze, so it cast this soap-opera-flashback feel over the entire business, really just emphasizing how trashy the whole affair was to begin with. I guess what I'm saying is, I miss Bill Clinton.
Please come back to us.


Still no email. I'm worrying - maybe my response was too informal? Was email the correct medium for responding, or should I have used a telephone? Do they even have my telephone number?
I worry too goddam much. It's how I breath. It permeates my existence, wakes me up in the morning. It whips me with a soft shoelace, with a plastic tip on the end.

I've got a teeny case of the collywobbles today. Suspicion: my eating in a decadent manner all the weekend has come back to smite me. Ay.
Maybe it also has something to do with my coffee-consumption levels. It's this thing that happens every time I go to Minnesota - they make the coffee much, much weaker there. So I'm drinking something like twenty cups of coffee every day and still feeling drowsy. Then I get back here and have an uber-bladder, drink WAY TOO MUCH coffee and it beats up my gut.
But at least I don't have to pee every twelve minutes!