10-15-98 Th 12:40 PM
Stuffed full of sweet and sour chicken. Today was picture day. It took me an hour to get out of bed this morning, and I didn't have time to shave. I ate a bowl of rice this morning. Just like The Sportswriter, Independence Day has begun as a narration of superb psycho-social perception. Unlike The Sportswriter, though, will it sustain that level for four hundred pages? I hope so. There's so much I want to read. I feel dead-brained again today. It's going to be a struggle to write three pages. One success on the day: I managed to attach enough menace to my silent reading directive that all twenty-seven children have been mute for twenty minutes now. Haven't read the newspaper today. Didn't read it yesterday either. Doesn't really seem necessary now that I can never play "Jeopardy" for money again. I HAVE to do a third-person page when I get home today. Maybe I should take Butt out for a bite or a drink tonight. I have to change my bulletin boards soon. What else? What else? Anne Senorvilla's a writer. Fucking Oprah Winfrey. I'm such an idiot. What else? Ugh. I'm not even halfway through this. Frank Bascombe is a real estate agent now. He assigns, rightly, life-shaping importance to buying a home. It's prescient of the effort I will have to make in a year. I've got to refer that imbecile Pablo to RSP. I read the kids some scary stories. One about the ghost of a murdered girl. It worked pretty well. Now I put on that horrible Columbus movie. What else? Walk home. Write. Lie on the couch. Walk to work. Come home from work. Go out for a drink. Go home. Sleep. Get up next morning. Go to work again. I have to call Amtrak when I get home. I should clean my room and clear off my desk, too. I hope my Advanta card comes today. Tomorrow is payday. I feel like drawing a picture, but of what? Maybe I should rent a movie tonight. What else? What else? There ain't no [pencil sketch of the cover of Shel Silverstein's A Light in the Attic with the top of a house growing out of a guy's head] light on in this attic. Is that a ghost in the window? What else? Why didn't I say Oprah? What else? Fifteen minutes until I can quit this. Why didn't I say Oprah? I don't have anything to say. At least I can quit this now.
Stuffed full of sweet and sour chicken. Today was picture day. It took me an hour to get out of bed this morning, and I didn't have time to shave. I ate a bowl of rice this morning. Just like The Sportswriter, Independence Day has begun as a narration of superb psycho-social perception. Unlike The Sportswriter, though, will it sustain that level for four hundred pages? I hope so. There's so much I want to read. I feel dead-brained again today. It's going to be a struggle to write three pages. One success on the day: I managed to attach enough menace to my silent reading directive that all twenty-seven children have been mute for twenty minutes now. Haven't read the newspaper today. Didn't read it yesterday either. Doesn't really seem necessary now that I can never play "Jeopardy" for money again. I HAVE to do a third-person page when I get home today. Maybe I should take Butt out for a bite or a drink tonight. I have to change my bulletin boards soon. What else? What else? Anne Senorvilla's a writer. Fucking Oprah Winfrey. I'm such an idiot. What else? Ugh. I'm not even halfway through this. Frank Bascombe is a real estate agent now. He assigns, rightly, life-shaping importance to buying a home. It's prescient of the effort I will have to make in a year. I've got to refer that imbecile Pablo to RSP. I read the kids some scary stories. One about the ghost of a murdered girl. It worked pretty well. Now I put on that horrible Columbus movie. What else? Walk home. Write. Lie on the couch. Walk to work. Come home from work. Go out for a drink. Go home. Sleep. Get up next morning. Go to work again. I have to call Amtrak when I get home. I should clean my room and clear off my desk, too. I hope my Advanta card comes today. Tomorrow is payday. I feel like drawing a picture, but of what? Maybe I should rent a movie tonight. What else? What else? There ain't no [pencil sketch of the cover of Shel Silverstein's A Light in the Attic with the top of a house growing out of a guy's head] light on in this attic. Is that a ghost in the window? What else? Why didn't I say Oprah? What else? Fifteen minutes until I can quit this. Why didn't I say Oprah? I don't have anything to say. At least I can quit this now.
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
posted by johnz at 6:24 PM
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