The Unswung Bat

Monday, September 10, 2007
I am not now now have a ever been a member of a sexy party

Just in time, a pack of Jack Kerouac books (nice alliteration) came by buzzer and obnoxious deliveryman (what did I say?). How they won me over: the first one's title is "Why Kerouac Matters."
He ain't much of a writer, but I'll give him a shot on the strength of that title and how fucking weak I'm personally feeling at the moment.
I'm an anemic kitten. I worked an extra day and a half and set rigid deadlines for the news section, and got all the copy in—written, edited, ready to go—by 8 p.m., only to see it all fell apart in a production bottleneck and clusterbomb explosion of fuckups, and no one knows why.
I have my theories, but like my crappier books and more pointless writing, they don't satisfy.
I slept in the office. I may die of mesothelioma. Or whatever you get from instant coffee.

[Away for a moment—where could I have been? Was it a tragicomic interlude? Did I prepare a bisque? The answer to these and more: yes. Microwave bisque is gross. Embracing my American heritage, I'm throwing money at the's 12:18, class is at 2 and in the meantime I can have anything I want near U of T for breakfast.]

How the hell am I supposed to finish a piece for this newfangled writers' group this Friday? Would Miz Laura notice if I brought one of her own, earlier projects to the table under my name...? Maybe I'll just write down the proceedings of the meeting, imagined in advance.

[A second interlude, y'ain't invited to the details, but it were loud, here.]

Is this anything? G'night, anyone, I do not know what I'm tired of, but I am so God damned tired of it.

A deep breath and regrouping: sitting in on a meditation seminar this term, gonna see what that's all about. Enlightenment pending, compiling inner peace...

Friday, September 07, 2007
I'm not dead yet

This year will be hard. I'm not going to have any of my own time, and I'll have to be very clever to have enough time for the stuff I've committed to do. I think next year I'll go hollow out a boulder and live in hermitage, enjoying only the simple burdens and absences of a contemplative life, like crickets chirping, hunger, the inability to have odd bumps diagnosed or cuts properly treated, and the sense that those facelike imaginary patterns in foliage are actual people.

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