House of leaves

The original plan, when starting up again, was to write every single day, first thing in the morning. Actually, it's still the plan; I have a book that I was given way back that suggests this is a good excercise for opening up the creative process. However, the reality is that, LIke Karl, I find myself working 16 hour days and dragging my sorry startled ass out of bed already half an hour late for the next day more often than I'd like to admit. As a side effect of this lifestyle, on the days that I actually DO have off, waking up at noon is a pretty common feature. Having breakfast around oneish. showering at two. gingerly pointing my zimmer frame over to the computer at 3.

reading Circe's posts is often an excercise in angst and guilt; as a human being, she strives more than single person I know, and I find that reading about her herculean efforts often casts a pall on my own, because at the end of the day I am a lazy fucker. I could be taking japanese lessons right this second. I could be in a gym on machines or climbing or sparring. I could be trying to build the neural net I've been talking about for the past 4 years, you know actually building it, not just mumbling about it to some girl I want to impress at a party. Fuck, I could be heading out to a party. Or volunteering.

Yet, despite what amounts to a mere 50 hours a week plus commutes and a tiny bit of appartment hunting, I feel completely strung out. a blasted shell. I once told a good friend that people are like springs; if you put them under some limited about of stress they adapt, and a restoring forces returns them to normal when the load is again removed. But increase that load beyond a certain point and you cross the "elastic limit", the point beyond which it becomes deformed and can never again return to being the way it was. I feel, most mornings, as though I passed my elastic limit about 8 years ago. Now I require sherpas to assist and a reward for completing such simple acts as taking out the garbage.

But this is a very commmon feeling. There's a book out there called "no time" by some woman who studies this kind of thing that I will eventually get around to reading and then writing about in here. And yes I am fully aware of the complex interplay of ironies in that last statement.

Fuck it all.

Let's test out the new Movable type linking system. here's a picture of Eva Herzigova in some slutty dress, apparently.

I was gonna tell you about leaves.