2-24-99 8:40 AM W
I had a hell of a time trying to sleep last night. The sirens and copters were screaming like an anthrax strike had hit the city. I was in the grips of narco-paranoia. Though I couldn't sleep, I was exhausted, so, though my imagination was in overdrive, I couldn't rise to write. The realtor was coming with two brokers. I felt like Public Enemy Number One. ~~~~I already ate Roscoe's just now. That's where I'm sitting. I decided to take the day off. Maybe I can get some writing done today. What about that Thalia woman I was supposed to meet with? Richard is coming today, too. I'll have to ask him about Y2K and taxes and home-buying. Breakfast isn't sitting so good. I'll make a steak when I get home. I've got to do the dishes, too. I'm going to need a nap today. I have to return "Under the Volcano." I want to read Islands in the Stream before I go to the Bahamas. I read the newspaper this morning. Spring training starts today. What else? Another inauspicious beginning for another journal. What else? I wish I'd hear back from these Bahamas people. My check should be coming soon. I wonder if I can buy that house. Probably not. I should try to ask some intelligent questions about it. I've got nearly ten grand in my tax shelter and mutual fund. Maybe I can borrow against that. I'll have to talk to a loan rep at the credit union. I've reached page 60 of Jim. How much longer 'til I get to page 75? To one hundred? My shoulder is still screaming, but not like it was Sunday and Monday. That coffee's got my leg bouncing up and down like a hyperactive third grader. Shirelle asked if my dad would have her shot if we got married. She was serious. I was paranoid enough last night to wonder what kind of hate our race mixing would incite. The doomsayers seemed inevitably right to me. Vivid Dreams is well-envisioned and humorous; the characters and story are amusing but also very familiar. The Indian hallucinations borrow from "Thunderheart" and "The Doors." The Sheriff reads like Sheriff Lobo or Jackie Gleason. The narration tells more than happens. I'm a better writer but for one gigantic exception: I have nothing finished. I'm a hack, a joke, a pretender, a wannabe. Well, time to go.
I had a hell of a time trying to sleep last night. The sirens and copters were screaming like an anthrax strike had hit the city. I was in the grips of narco-paranoia. Though I couldn't sleep, I was exhausted, so, though my imagination was in overdrive, I couldn't rise to write. The realtor was coming with two brokers. I felt like Public Enemy Number One. ~~~~I already ate Roscoe's just now. That's where I'm sitting. I decided to take the day off. Maybe I can get some writing done today. What about that Thalia woman I was supposed to meet with? Richard is coming today, too. I'll have to ask him about Y2K and taxes and home-buying. Breakfast isn't sitting so good. I'll make a steak when I get home. I've got to do the dishes, too. I'm going to need a nap today. I have to return "Under the Volcano." I want to read Islands in the Stream before I go to the Bahamas. I read the newspaper this morning. Spring training starts today. What else? Another inauspicious beginning for another journal. What else? I wish I'd hear back from these Bahamas people. My check should be coming soon. I wonder if I can buy that house. Probably not. I should try to ask some intelligent questions about it. I've got nearly ten grand in my tax shelter and mutual fund. Maybe I can borrow against that. I'll have to talk to a loan rep at the credit union. I've reached page 60 of Jim. How much longer 'til I get to page 75? To one hundred? My shoulder is still screaming, but not like it was Sunday and Monday. That coffee's got my leg bouncing up and down like a hyperactive third grader. Shirelle asked if my dad would have her shot if we got married. She was serious. I was paranoid enough last night to wonder what kind of hate our race mixing would incite. The doomsayers seemed inevitably right to me. Vivid Dreams is well-envisioned and humorous; the characters and story are amusing but also very familiar. The Indian hallucinations borrow from "Thunderheart" and "The Doors." The Sheriff reads like Sheriff Lobo or Jackie Gleason. The narration tells more than happens. I'm a better writer but for one gigantic exception: I have nothing finished. I'm a hack, a joke, a pretender, a wannabe. Well, time to go.
posted by johnz at 10:56 AM
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