Tuesday: fly to Cleveland. Eat dinner, prep for class, sleep.

Wednesday: Run training class. Eat dinner, catch up on e-mail, meet old friend for a drink, sleep.

Thursday: Run training class. Get on plane, sit on tarmac for two hours with weather delay, get home, drive home, watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force, sleep.

Friday: Take Anne to hospital for tests, which went fine (still waiting for biopsy results, but not worried as the gastroscopy ruled out anything major — biopsy was just a formality). Ship guitar to Erie, PA.

Saturday: Depressed all day. Went to anselm23‘s birthday party. Read poem. Got hugged. Went home. Will sleep now.

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I have something really profound to say here about the nature of poetry and its relationship to sound, based on recent reading and thinking; but I can’t recall what it is.

This is the story of my life. When I was about 16, I had a really profound insight into the nature of existence, based on staring at moonlight on ceiling tiles in my room; I fell asleep and lost it forever.

Half of life, I think, is attempted recovery of the forgotten things we once thought profound. The other half is attempted release of bullshit thoughts that aren’t at all profound; somewhere in there is the attempt to sort among the bullshit for the profound thoughts.

Doesn’t leave much time for sex. Or happiness, for that matter.

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There is no time to say everything that needs saying. There is not enough breath saved for it. Life is a giant scam we’re trying to outwit.

Fold.

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