I get up and I write.
What I write forms itself into a book.
The books form themselves into series.
The series form metaseries, and meta-metaseries.
I call the whole bolus 40-Year Run. I call it The Great
American Novel, or, The Human Soap Opera.
Too melodramatic. Sometimes I'm not sure
which book I'm in. To orient yourself
means to face the east. To consult your compass.
To synchronize your watches. With whom?
What difference does it make. I'm on
social security. It's going to be
rejected anyway. I'm still going
to do it. The pages are in order.
What if they weren't?
What difference
would it make?
Obama would still be president.
The tea-baggers would still be
beside themselves at the effrontery.
Who told me to write books.
Who told me to write every day.
What did I think I was up to?
What did I think I was doing?
It's 6:15 a.m. Time to fix breakfast.
We had a good weekend. We cooked, we ate,
we read, we watched television. Now it's Monday.
Brenda goes to work and I have the house to myself
all day. Unless my old recruiter calls and I go on
a job interview. Make hay while the sun shines.
Unless I get some mail. No reply or a form letter.
Spam. A Y2K virus. Bigfoot must die. The world
is coming to an end. I caught Bigfoot. He was I.
Bigfoot caught me. I set a trap and caught
my own leg in it, like Thoreau.
Like Melville, quarreling with fiction.
Like Whitman. Is this Leaves of Grass?
Is this Democratic Vistas? Is this
With Walt Whitman in Camden?
People get old and die.
It isn't pretty.