wildcat

Listening to the Magnetic Fields. Reading Hari Kunzru's The Impressionist, which opens with a monsoon flooding the desert, a British man locked in a torrid embrace with a disgraced woman of high caste. Recovering from last night's debacle of substances, including a magnum of wine. Written 950 words of "Cat Burglar," a short story. I'd like to squeeze out an extra fifty words to bring it up to an even thousand for the night, so I can write another thousand tomorrow, at least. I borrowed two Far Side collections from the library. Posted a fresh rantbook entry a little while ago, the first in some time. Felt extravagant and fine. Languishing in a Bollywood psychosis. I need to get back to reading City of the Djinns.

Tomorrow, I'm meeting Natasha for lunch to discuss the three day novel, a doom which hangs on the horizon and draws ever closer, squeezing daylight out at the sides but offering only despair and netherworlds that I can't quite fathom. I have character names, and a light outline of the chapters.

Yesterday was Joy's birthday, there was a goofy party with drunk carousing at Steph and Heather's apartment, Zabadoo the cat rustling around and around on the hard wood floors. I drank entirely too much and became a frightful bore, but that was only to be expected. It's good to get the frightening bits unrepressed before we head feet first into a new school year, and nothing does that better than some bawdy times at both ends of a magical bottle. Stumbled home with Michael afterward to have a third night in bed together. A pretty boy in his underwear, if there's a better reason to jump for joy, who cares? Talked to Ayla on the phone in England on the walk back, which was entirely too long for my bladder.

And now I have MSN Messenger on my computer and an internet connection in my room. I can blog as I write, read, and listen to music. Life is good. Life is high-octane.