bad remorse concerning a scooter I just missed by about an hour today.

soon I may suddenly be in a werk lull.

werked a little today.

remorse.

there will be others. ouch though. ouch.

what. I’m just sitting here blogging. it’s 2008. if this were olden days I’d be making yarn or petting goats.

I have a pretty decent feeling of there being nothing urgent I need to do re: hygiene, people, money, the indoor environment. I have feelings about being an artist that are perhaps unresolvable and that closely track my feelings about being a person in history. this is incredibly privileged. I don’t know if I have guilt feelings about that. probably not. but I don’t want people to think I’m stupid. so when I sit in my ergonomic chair and write about my feelings about being an artist in history I like to point out that I’m privileged so people won’t think I’m stupid. Ian thinks this is totally unnecessary. he’s the person who I think most keenly feels the needlessness of my apologetic gestures. we’re all just clear weeds. I think that was a gesture of, what. uhh. I dunno. post-modernity or something. the thing about clear weeds. I’m really not sure. what is this convoluted brontosaurus forever sniffing it’s tail. it’s optional, in lubbock, where you can stand on a six-pack and see for 50 miles.

oh, literary note: I’ve been reading Corn & Smoke, by Blaster Al Ackerman. I didn’t expect it to work for me as comedy on the page. I figured it was just a live performance thing. But I sit on my toilet and convulse. It’s very funny. Some dry, some wet. The wet doesn’t make me laugh so much but I can still appreciate it in a way. The one-minute stories in that book were killing me last night, for many minutes. it’s funny, you can see someone read 3 or 4 times and have the totally wrong idea about what they’re all about and their ceiling and stuff. seeing him recently at the carriage house really brought out the good. sometimes baltimore stuff is so baltimore, in a way, that there’s a trap, thinking oh it’s just baltimore, and we like it in that little pen and find it charming there. but that’s a trap. I will forever be unresolved about issues of geographic scale, culturally. I think it’s an unavoidable conclusion, that artists, just like everyone else, are bullied by the political boundaries of states, countries, etc. hey, I think this is where the blog post is getting good. yeah, on to something here. dont you think, I think this is right, that most poets think of the nation as the main unit of legitimacy, scale of legitimacy. and anything beyond that is a bonus, and anything short of that is sort of, cute, but insufficient. it’s all about the nation. that’s the feeling I get. no doubt that feeling has to do with readings and the fact that people from around that nation come to read. also, language is a huge factor. me, I just want to be famous in…

there are all sorts of really cool funny ways I could end that sentence. but some of them are a bit too edgy for hereabouts. some people might be alienated. I’m not laughing. I’m laughing. also the other day when I said I ache inside, and was crying my minds out, I was especially elated at the time. I was flying. I don’t wish to undermine my credibility as a reporter. don’t know where this is going. so it can be an audience participation thing since I can’t finish that sentence in all the shivering golden ways I might if I were unaccountable.