ladies and gentlemen

where's the string-of-consciousness? Where's the Sal Paradise-ing and the narrative thread that ought to present itself so readily to the fingers at the end of the mind of a supposed writer? And to really let things get going as uncontrollably as possible, let me ask in lieu of response whether my mind ends at my fingertips and if so is it disturbing or arousing to consider being stroked by the outer reaches of a mind?

I sleep too late. The imperative to get out of bed is weak when my day will punctuate with spending money, possibly going to classes I don't need, maybe drinking, certainly riding a tram, and, if I'm really lucky, I might even force myself to scrawl a few pages. Two thirty this afternoon I'm drinking coffee and reading Salman Rushdie. It will be the highlight of my day.

I come to the lab and waste time, because otherwise I'm just going to waste time somewhere else. I listen to webradio and read other people's blogs, and they complain about the days being full. It reminds me of that calvin and hobbes single panel, the cover of the days are just packed. I haven't had a packed day since the prevalentines day rush of my weekend in prague, and that was only packed because of the imperative of playing host. I need to be writing, I need to be developing my film and printing pictures and experimenting and double-exposing and learning to play the guitar and doing readings again and drinking wine and singing in public and running and building something and instead I'm growing facial hair. That's really it, folks, all I am doing now, really, is growing facial hair.

I told myself a few days ago that I was going to do things here. God knows I'll try but it's becoming obvious that the things I can do here are limited. I can write, certainly. I can take pictures. I can save money, I can eat better, and I can do well in these classes. It doesn't sound like so very little, but it's not enough, I don't think.

The overarching goal is lost in a haze of short days and snowblind afternoons and liquor and smoke and expat lit. and lonliness, and that's the root of it, yeah?

But perhaps I've said too much.

MUSIC: bricks: you shouldn't have smashed your guitar