bark at that moon.

I'm proud: I know I just did something, I ordered a bunch of books. It feels nice.

They'll arrive in the mail and let me know that a week or two ago, I did something.

That too will feel nice.

I'm sorry this place is shrinking, cramming my head into its drawers. It can't be helped. Everyone's sorry they asked. In fact I'll give it back to them; I can force it out of me, certainly I can re-gift it. Everything is set up except the inevitable problem of the headphones, and sitting here still makes me want to...weep. In the metaphysical sense: a good enough hiding spot. Like a cubby under the stairs in the psyche.

How much contempt can there be in a body, so fully ready to take on the world when it's not looking, let's say it's indisposed...to? I've been crying wolf on Facebook for a month, "sharing" this blog--but when the real thing's ready, oh...everyone who knows me will be too weary to go there. They checked this blog once and guffawed; and what, he's adding drums to the same old mess?

So much more than can be discussed. Pretend, then, that you're honest. Get crazy confessional with it. Recall what Sontag said of a geologist's autobiography, almost sickening with the lack of self-respect, the total admissions to failures mostly in the bedroom. I confess to constantly thinking about my projects, whatever they happen to be. I'll go so far as to say that hardly anything ever occupies me so...persistently.

For a reminder of how ugly this can be, watch the sickening video for that embarrassing song, Bark at the Moon. Nothing surpasses this and gets famous for it.

I might be calculating, careful to the point of geometric.