Because I am a writer, it keeps mattering to me that I am not writing as much as I think I should. And around here, the potential is monumental. I mean, there's my honey, selling his wares out on the street, and along comes this girl, for the 4th or 5th time, looking for a cheap enough bike, and she has a digital camera in one hand and the hunchback walks by dressed pretty much like Elvis. And she starts snapping pictures and he starts posing, turning this way and that with his shopping cart full of rattling cans. And I wonder: to think that I might have missed all this but for throwing caution to the wind. What sheer bliss to the lazy imagination. I see these things and i jot them down here, but only here, and I wonder if the book I'm not writing will have a hunchback character. Or the bike girl. She skipped away, delighted to have found the 80$ Schwinn road bike.
Nicole's hair. That's what my weekend has been all about. Blonde and blonder. Cut and colored and bleached. She'd look great with a shaved head, and with all that bleach, that's about what happened.
Anyway, I'm trying to write. I am trying. And you know what they say: tryin' is dyin. Just write. So, we will be accountable to one another, my literate friend and I. This thought freezes my pen. But it will thaw with use, and I will finish the story one day.
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Reminds me of what Kafka said about all this. "And without remembering that he was still unaware what powers of movement he possessed, without even remembering that his words in all possibility, indeed in all likelihood, would again be unintelligible, he let go the wing of the door, pushed himself through the opening, started to walk towards the chief clerk, who was already ridiculously clinging with both hands to the railing on the landing; but immediately, as he was feeling for a support, he fell down with a little cry upon all his numerous legs."
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