Sunday, May 25, 2003
I have tremendous difficulty with days that I neither work nor try to work. Worse still are "days off," which are generally dealt with by leaving the apartment. Spooky forces me out into the wide, annoying world, driving me from my cocoon and far from the keyboard, and, usually, that makes it less difficult to avoid obsessing about the fact that I ought to be writing. Or at least thinking about writing. The latter situation characterizes the "try to work" days, which, lately, have outnumbered the actual work days. Anyway, as I have a house guest, today is one of those days when I'm simply at a loss. I'm no good at this leisure thing. I know that's very unAmerican of me, that we should all strive for more leisure, but I'm pretty sure I have a genetic predisposition against it.
Next year, I think I'll work straight through my birthday.
Death will be very leisurely, I suspect, and I have an eternity of it to which I can look forward.
Meanwhile, I work. Except these sorts of days, when I don't. But wish that I were. I should stop now, before someone discovers what I'm doing and yells at me for working.
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