Thursday morning. 2:30 a.m. I wake up with
the writing roaring in my head.
I spring to the easel.
It's better than being unable to write anymore, like Hemingway.
This
morning I will screen Vitus on DVD. Brenda doesn't want to
watch it again.
Last night, I went to my room and read Lit, by Mary Karr.
She watched
Tweetie, Olbermann, and Rachel Maddow on MSNBC.
I thought when Obama was elected
it would be different. I was naïve.
I underestimated the resistance. I am overinformed.
I know more than
I want to, and not the right stuff. It's political propaganda
and
commercial advertisements. Spectacle. People magazine.
Tits and
ass (T&A). The last days of the Roman empire.
I married a woman who says
shit and makes biscuits.
Or used to. Now she sits in a recliner and watches TV.
She
is tired from her work. She has a sleep disorder.
Her husband is distrait. He
snarls. He is frustrated.
Mary Karr had it hard and she could network.
It's
just life, my friend. Be grateful for
your blessings and let the side shit go.
What's
the opposite of lit? Ill-lit? Unlit?
Snuffed out? Used to light? Wet blanket?
Nobody
wants to hear that shit.
Mary Karr is pretty. I look like
20 miles of bad
road.
Identify, don't compare.
Sarah Palin's memoir.
This book is fiction.
What
that book is
doesn't matter.