Now I would like to take a long nap but that isn't happening; dinner at the president's house. Come Thursday Jimmy my devil is off to London and I'll be home alone, figuring out the constellations now that the nights are cold and clear, reading poems over a bottle of wine, writing a lot, and enjoying the newspaper, esp lines like "they seem to be enjoying themselves as much as a dog licking its bollocks". I can't really talk about writing these days even though I am doing a lot of writing. There is no one to talk shop with, 'cept for Jimmy, who has nice ideas and wants everything I write to be a novel. I can't tell if my stories matter or if I'm going in any direction other than wayward, circuitous, shambolic, etc. A serious clown of a writer. But that is how it will go, I suppose, as it has been for years. All I can say at this point (that is, the end of this paragraph) is I hope to enjoy this time alone as much a dog licking its bollocks.




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