THE DAY I LEFT THE HOUSE
So blinkingly back into the light I step, after what, over a week of --
Hm.
Sorry I'm late - where were we? --
uh... nope.
So, uh, how was everyone's holiday?

Damn, that doesn't work neither. Anyway, something just came over me there for a while.

See, here's the problem. Clayton's been arrested a couple of times, once for drugs and once for falling under a horse at a peace demo, and he doesn't know if his probation's run out yet, turns out his wife was a monomaniacal workaholic, and June? Well, she just finished reading On The Road and is looking for some kicks.

See, the book is back in the foreground. I've been running off little background bits and snippets of dialogue pretty much continuously for the last week, to the point where I was kind of pissed to have to go back and spend some time with my family. I mean sure, they're nice and all, but being unemployed, I had no presents (save my presence) for any of them, and not knowing if I was going to make it (well, I've lived too far away in the past to make my attendance a sure thing), they didn't get me much either. Sweater, bathrobe, gloves, all very welcome in this cold snap here.

Damn it to murgatroyd it's cold in this town. This apartment has more drafts than, than, than Dennis Miller's first published article. (I'm out of practice with the snippy rejoinders. Everything's been so... protracted of late, every chapter topping out at between 1000 and 2500 words, just all on their own, that seems to be the pace, anyway they're all like this.)

I missed not doing being here for a week and a half. I can't guarantee regularity just yet, but I'm sure as hell not done here. Take that news how you like.

So tonight the fever hasn't broke yet. But I tried, really I did. Went out to see Lunchin at the Sidewalk, and Chris Barron and I sat in the back and he Canuck-baited me all night. I got to dis his band back at him a bit, though, so it worked out okay far as I care.

I figured I have to start taking breaks from writing the damned thing at some point, even just to go out for food. But nope, I came back and I started on Clayton's car. Well okay, not his, but where he got it.

I can no longer guarantee the arbitrary benchmark of anything I write actually making sense, not to my friends, not to this weblog, not to anyone. But just like dogs and broken pipes, that problem too can be fixed.