They can’t all be haikus Robinson
No words today, and no want of, but still.
Every line I write seems to want to stand alone, or at the very most, join Warhol’s three person party (and even then they suggest they’re more inclined to call the company a crowd). And it seems sensible to me that the process would be as stubborn as its instrument,…. but still.
I suppose at this very moment in some other dimension there is a more prolific me who is bemoaning her fate and complaining that she’d rather have the time to sqeeze in a few more episodes of Weeds or sleep an extra 4 hours, right? But what I can’t decide is which of us (if either) should be considered the bigger idiot, or whether or not I honestly care. Whatever the answers, I wouldn’t be quick to call this resignation, though I have to admit, it isn’t dissatisfaction either, or even a close cousin (read, “I think I feel nothing, nothing a ‘tall bout it baby”).
No words today, and who gives a damn really? One can always write about not writing, or watch an episode of weeds, or fall asleep…I mean Jesus! really! The options are just endless I tell ya…
(And creativity’s overrated anyway).
Right? Right? Right?
["and bruno said what anders said some producer said to young lennon
"they can't all be ballads julian"]
