I have no fucking idea.
Mostly because I’ve been putting off creation and that makes me veritably caged and, evidently, homicidal, or something. Matthew wrote something on my hand, but I’ve washed my hand since and it doesn’t matter anyway because everything, even this actual act is a deflection: I have no identity unless I’m a conduit for creation. All my fear, all my avoidance, all my fault, all my deep, deep, deep need to sleep. Simple problem, simple answer. Sure, seems that way at this hour and after all that. or was it the simple fact that I’ve said a hundred times before that red wine specifically turns me into a psycho bitch? You may not have retained this fact, I mean, why would you, but there we have it. It may be seven in the morning, but I still need a lamp to see what the hell it is I’m writing. God Damnit, my biggest wish is to shut up but I can't because I'm not built-----.
Red wine? Yeah, I made a point of remembering that.
This brought back memories: at 6:50 AM yesterday I was walking to WORK. Also made me think about my other class, when people spontaneously, unaccountably began a discussion on what they found tedious or frustrating about writing; "I love everything about writing," I said. Like I love that painting is a smelly, lonely occupation.
Posted by: Chris at October 3, 2005 8:59 AMThat's a very good point. I've held it dear as I do now. Or I wouldn't still be doing this, otherwise.
Posted by: caroline at October 3, 2005 10:09 AM