Here's what

Two (ok, three) thoughts:
Reading quite a bit-and all of a sudden have a greater interest not only in procuring books, but in actually reading them.
Middlemarch-ypu, it's taken me a lot to get started with this Victorian novel-which some consider one of the finest books ever written-and i am engrossed in it and almost don't want it to end…this surprising, as for quite a while I checked my progress via the bookmark's trudging through the pile of pages.
I'll begin-once again-The Recognitions-the William Gaddis book, which is another monster which  promises the same sort of conclusions and sense that Gravity's Rainbow held for me (NOT-I never have yet finished that one).
Roberto Bolano lost me with his Primitive Detectives story and I've been swamped even by many short stories-dunno what accounts for this most recent interest in sitting up straight by a good strong light and giving myself to another's narrative.
I'm so fucking disillusioned with my art and the art "world" and what is considered good lately. No, i know I shouldn't be: I'm too damn old and "wise" (or is that wizened?) to mistake that path… how, at this age, could I see it laden with jewels as opposed to the reality, which is to know that it's laden with blood and body parts. S'pose I tired of  the self-admonition this week (Shut up and keep working) and demanded to know why the hell nobody even casts a glance at what i'm doing. Some days it really all is one big joke.
Writing this in order to prime the pump and start writing again- suffering in silence is for the birds and why not turn these black thoughts into words, paragraphs, letters? I still believe that anger is an energy.