Saturday, May 14, 2011



Supposedly being tired and cranky is the best time to write. I have no way to test this; I never feel tired or cranky.

I believe the best time to write is when someone is slapping you in the face because you aren't writing. It gives writing a sense of immediacy. The now-ness of it. A challenge of writing is that every word rockets to the past; each sentence is born to this time but the past is its wet nurse.

Or something.

I finished reading Moby Dick. I think this was the fifth time. It seemed like a braggable number but that breaks down to about once every couple of years since the first time I sat down to read the whole thing.

I almost feel like if there were a four-year degree in Moby Dick, I might at least minor in it. I'd probably get a whale-watching tour out of it.

I'm falling asleep in this chair. It's time to reclaim my bed from the dogs. Then I can dream of whales, and of standing on a whale-watching boat which, when there are no whales to be seen, is a lot like any other boat.

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