Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.

I just completed my third read through “The Time Traveler’s Wife” by Audrey Niffenegger. Holy crap what a book. I have never in my life read a book from cover to cover three times in a row — only twice before have I even considered giving a book a second read the moment I put it down — wasn’t it ‘The Stranger’ by Camus (which was mostly because it was so short and I’d only actually been reading for a year or so and felt I’d missed something essential and wanted so much to understand,) and then I certainly did read ‘The Subterraneans’ by Kerouac twice over because I’d had so much trouble with the rhythm of Jack’s poetry that when it was over I was breathless and didn’t want it to stop: But never thrice. Not ever. I swear Ms. Niffenegger has been spying on my dreams. I’m saving myself for a protracted review of the book, and don’t give a crap if it’s a few years old, or been on book club’s must read lists. It’s a fucking brilliant debut novel. The best thing I’ve read in 20 years.

The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey.

Today I noticed that I have a tendency to capitalize the first two letters of the names of people I love. it happens often enough that I notice, and sometimes laugh at even the different time saving ways I have of going back and correcting it. Do I backspace? Sometimes when I delete the characters I’ll actually delete everything I’ve written since the spelling error. Occasionally I just click the cursor into place and repair the error. Once in a while it gets past me… overlooked. I don’t do this with the names of people I don’t love. It just never happens. I think that maybe subconsciously I apply a little more pressure, linger a little longer on the keys… as if there were going to be some sort of impression felt on the other end of the message.

It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again.

I keep thinking that if only I could clear my head, or if only I can keep this up something will give… some thing will give way and this path I’m on will brighten, flourish and care for me and the people who depend upon me. I can see now that I’ve been letting a few of my grosser handicaps get in the way a little bit. I see what needs to be done, I am doing the work in front of me. I’d like to think that it was just so terrible… but the truth is that I love my work, and am completely inspired.

These are inspirational times for music, and art. Something about the bleak landscape of American life, our collective dullness, workaholism, stress and addiction to fear just boils my creative heart and refines the sugar of my words even after they come flying out of my mouth. I feel wonderful, confident, sure of myself and assured of my abilities, my community, and revel in the warmth of the soles of my bare feet placed firmly on the ground I stand upon. The only thing better is that my heart is shining like a furious bright light, and my head is safely lost in the clouds.

Reference: Quoted poetry from Meditations in an Emergency - Frank O’Hara