An early return from Jersey (I almost couldn't take it anymore), and after a night of Newcastle and Brosnan Bond, I am trying to recover some of what I've lost. I brought back a bunch of my old journals to try and reconstruct all the poetry that disappeared when my hard drive died. And then there's the work I should be doing; reading The Tempest, editing workshop pieces, putting together final portfolios, doing rewrites on Ether. There's so much clutter in this room. I want it all the be positive clutter. There is so much that needs getting rid of. I'll make it happen this week, I must promise myself this much.
Everywhere there are books I want to pick up and dive into, but it feels like there is never enough time. James warned me that soon he'll need to isolate himself and really rework his script. I'll probably be reading every free moment once that happens, seeing him when we cook dinner, and then returning to my room afterward, staying up late with the The Annotated Dracula. Or Joyce. Or re-reading Virginia. My brain aches to be full of more words. Probably one day, I will be a hermit, and I will have to be okay with that, because I will read and write more than anybody in the whole world. Maybe an exaggeration. I have to get to the typewriter store before Christmastime. I want to do so much writing in the basement, noisy writing, clack clack return type writing.
So much to accomplish. So much paper everywhere. I kind of want to just light it all on fire. But I will not. I will just listen to Menomena, like I've been doing, finish the Tempest, do all my homework at once and make sure that it's done right.
There will be a real update later, with real things in it. For right now, my head is just in a strange space.