I couldn't care less about twenty sentences this morning. I went to bed late - watched part of Juno, wasn't particularly impressed - woke up before four. Dreams of having some paintings I'd done through the years inspected. Vocal reference to Brockton, where one of my sisters was born, which also figures in some recent writing.
Finished Bhanu Kapil's Incubation. Reread portions, near midnight, of Mathews again, Twenty Lines A Day. Jeremiah took The Sword In The Stone out of the library, some bright Disney version. Traces of Star Wars in it: Merlin as Obi-Wan, the young boy whose royal identity is a secret, etc. etc. I know Robert Bly gets all worked up over that, good for him.
Something's wrong - but what exactly.
Mr. Jones always did the best he could, like the rest of us, pretty much.
Are we there, have the twenty sentences passed yet.
Petulance is unattractive. It's not like anybody's got a gun to my head - wait - maybe it is "like" that - I know that I can always just not write them - or do I.
Does hell have one L or two? Just look at the word, damn you.
I don't care if this bit of writing isn't pretty. I don't care if it don't swing or if the space between sentences is just two whacks of the space bar. "You do what you have to do."
And sometimes you don't, period.
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