Writing

Prophecies of my brilliant writing career were a side effect of the speech defect which held me mostly mute until preadolescance. I was writing prolifically long before I had the confidence to say, "Howdy." I rather enjoyed those prophecies to the point of nurturing them in my personal ambitions. The prophecies stalled out on the mind bending process of plying butt to chair for the tedium of rewrites, finding editors, publishers, etcetera, etceteri, in between psychotic breaks, paying rent, raising babies, dramacating with adult children, etcetera, etceteri. All you have to do is. . . Run screaming? That sure as fuck turned out to be harder work than the glamour shots and *just* talks imply.

Among the items I had planned to carry back to the river region are the 3 plastic wing lid file boxes which hold the 100+ spiral notebooks of my hand-written journal. If I am serious about finally getting to the next round of butt work to hammer out the rewrites of my *great american novel*, the more important collection might be the two file drawers from previous attempts. Oops. I left those in the urban homestead, 190 miles to the south of here. If I am serious about doing the next round of butt work in the basecamp, it would be worth the drive to get them. No, I don't trust anyone else to pack them for me. It's been long enough since the last round of butt work that I don't remember the drawers well enough to know what's in them.

I'm not too sure I'm serious about that next round of butt work. I wasn't too sure, even within the idyllic plans that preceeded the Breach of Contract. As I piddle my way through another week of procrastination, I look at those wing lid file boxes and still can't quite see myself lifting them into the back of the truck. They aren't hurting a thing right where they are.

I can't believe it is already Thursday. The tire Hubs already paid for still hasn't arrived. Hubs already took a day off from his paying gig so that he can tend his urban homestead bee biz and still have time for another weekend here. ?Por que no? I already feel like I need to put K on retainer. The month of house-sitting she agreed to has already stretched past 3 months. It's not wise to abuse volunteers like that, but she is still sounding warm and friendly about the favor. She tells me the studio floor hasn't gotten any worse and she still hasn't spotted flood evidence. She theorates the foundation acquired a new buckle. We won't know until we pull it up the flooring and see what's underneath. Ah. . . The joys of real estate ownership. . . Who owns whom? There is much to be said for being able to call the landlord and say, "Hey, fix this."