Coffee: Maxwell House Drip, single-serve packet; I brewed what they had at the bank branch. I had the time but not the energy to make my own this morning. There was a big box of plastic pouches, two scoops each, enough for a pot. A waste of plastic. As for the taste, imagine being a woodchuck on a cold night; you’ve got to make yourself something but the only trees to bore are aging, wet oaks; you suck it up and chew.
A dead-end sort of day. You keep turning circles and it’s just another wall.
I woke up at 3am. Thought there was a snake in my bed. There wasn’t. I stayed up awhile letting nightmares in and out. Then I got up late.
Cold outside, a puffy coat militia. I’ve been thinking about rivers. I’d like to take a dip, freeze up, and see what extremities come off.
I’m doing revisions on the book. New directions. You’ll see the word count drop and rise sporadically. Still writing everyday, just writing over. White out.
Art is a stuck pig. You tie him up and gut him. Then you’re shaving parts, boiling the bones, making stew. There’s lots to devour. Some of it’s even good.
Novel Count: 14,684 words
Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith; Cherry, Nico Walker
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I trust that none will stretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to him whom it fits.Henry David Thoreau, Walden