Killala on, the tea smells faintly of Fruity Pebbles. Last night there was thunder, lightening, and rain so heavy it woke Jeremiah. He fell back to sleep counting in a whisper. He loves numbers, words also, writing them all morning sometimes. Other than his name and the names of those he loves, he can't actually spell anything but has an intuitive understanding of the relationship between vowels and consonants, so the "words" he writes are less garble and more like missives from some place where the alphabet is the same but the language different.
Fatigued by the idea of writing. Writing what. If I had cows to milk I'd be out there milking them (okay then - doing what instead of writing). And the need to procure signatures to run for Town Moderator. What does that have to do with writing. Well, being in a certain place in a definitive way. Michael says, viz. the differences between hack (pulp) and literature, be an outlier. Which made me envious of his obvious integration of the two poles, what it seems I cannot myself manage.
Killala starts so lovely, the bass notes droning on forever, a slow deep river, dark too, but ends in a fairly lively bit of fiddling. Now Ray Lynch (Ray Lunch) and I hope the realtor next door, who plays drums in "a country outfit" won't come over and say "what the hell is that . . . ?"
Leaves blow across the parking lot visible outside the window, a triangle with one angle lopped off.
First I liked Joy Williams, then I didn't - too much Ray Carver, too much black humor a la Vonnegut (which worked for him because the whole thing was wacky, space ships, et cetera), too much "people don't talk that way." But then I liked her a lot, or liked short stories, and now have to try and figure out why. And read next Bynum, who I tried last night but couldn't do it, so tired from recovering from the "bug."
The wind coming through a crack in the window is cool and sweet and makes me think the question what the fuck am I doing here is maybe not as relevant as I like. Jim Harrison: the overexamined life is also not worth living."