Monday, January 06, 2003
There are times, like right now, this afternoon, this moment, when the frustration at not being able to get past the distractions of life and the distractions of the business of writing push me past annoyance to full-fledged anger. The two workmen outside my office window with their leafblowers, blowing at non-existent leaves and pumping out carbon-monoxide that seeps beneath the window sill and into the room with me. The contract that needed a long clause added, and having to write it into each copy by hand. The parcel I need to send, but the address was lost in the move. A misplaced e-mail address. The list of things that I was supposed to get done in December that have carried over into January. All of it piling up and pressing in. And nothing gets written because I can't clear my head of all this stupid fucking noise.
Forget a room of your own; these days, you need a goddamn island of your own.
Maybe I'll try to say something more later. Then again, maybe I'll have beat the workmen to death with their own leafblowers and I'll never have to write another word, so long as I live (See? I can do optimism.).
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