I've been pushing piles of paper back and forth these last few hours. Nothing too energetic, you understand, but the medical receipts have been found and stapled, various requests for reimbursement have been started and I am thinking that going into the office on Monday won't be so bad. You tend to hallucinate when you've been cooped up too long in an apartment.
The day is overcast, maybe it will rain, maybe it will not, but nothing here makes me want to escape outside. Escape where? Escape what? Similar thoughts to shooting pictures. No ambition, head empty, where's summer? Six weeks now and it comes to this.
No sign on either of the shipper's web sites of the firewall computer from Dell or the books and CD's from Amazon. Doesn't matter. I could manage playing a CD, not too zoned out for that. I could be in a mood to build a firewall. Once it's online - and this will take another week of procrastination, I have no doubt - I can set up the webcam again. Nothing here worth uploading an image of every 15 seconds, but how long's it been since I uploaded images of 12th Street and Broadway? Two years? Three years? I still see people coming in searching for it through Google. No shame, no blame, the Internet is a jungle of webcams living and dying. Mine's dead. Time for resuscitation.
I've just finished listening to William Burroughs read from Naked Lunch, an album I haven't played in a decade. "Mexico City, where Lupita sits...." Short, staccato spoken thoughts and sentences. Reminds me of the way MRW talks and maybe Randy Newman after hearing him in a recent interview. I'm going to ask MRW about that. He's done book covers for Burroughs, he met him about the time I was fleeing San Francisco for Napa, and carried on an occasional artist to artist communication (one assumes in short choppy sentences) until Burroughs' death. Where from these short choppy sentences? Butt fucking doesn't seem to come into it, MRW is straight, and so, I assume, is Randy Newman. Still, where from these droll choppy bursts of words?
Are we having trouble comprehending our own choppy sentences?
Oh, hell. All they need really are a lot of rewrite and another author. An injection of intelligence. And a little whiskey, maybe, neat.