Provincetown.Day Number Something
Here I am in Provincetown, on Cape Cod while Rasha is shlepping around NYC.
The kid's watching "102 Dalmations" for the second time.
Spent early this morning at the beach, making "dribble castles" on the sandbar, watching the tide go out and watching it come back in...dribble castles being that architectural phenomenon wherein one takes wet sand between ones fingers or hands and allows it to dribble into the desired formation. The water was waist height for a good 50 yards, almost waveless except for a little foam breaking...
who woulda thunk that I, Nancy L--, would be talking about goddamn sandbars and the goddamn tide.
And I now know what color seafoam green is.
What to say? Ah, yes, afternoon in the pool with the kid while reading trashy novels that I can't help reading primarily because I read past the first page and my sense of Protestant guilt and innate nerdiness forces me to make my way through the entire book, willy nilly and regardless of the agony.
I can say, because of the two shitty books I've read ("The Pursuit of Alice Thrift" and "The Patron Saint of Liars") that I now understand why I don't write novels. You can say that poetry is self-indulgent and navel-gazing. But at least poetry, when shitty, is short and shitty. Shitty fiction is long-winded and self-indulgent and just plain old wack when the dialogue is trite and the observations about the "self" and "others" are largely scatological or masturbatory.
...
There was a time when I cared about making my entries make some sort of sense. That was a long time ago.
Do you think (and this is a rhetorical "you") that I would be better off taking Ritalin?
I just do not care anymore and do not know...
well, I want to say that I do not "care" because my brain is on vacation in preparation for work and more work this coming year as T.A. and thus an underpaid starving artist...
but I think that is just an excuse as when brain is not on vacation I tend towards saying, "oh, I am just too busy to think and to try to write things down in a sensical fashion."
Must remember to read "Art & Fear." Must stop with the excuses. Must not waste time and thus life. As life is short and I shall only end in a mass of dusty bones.
The previous was, of course, worded in a manner that I am not satisfied with. Why? Because I am a lazy motherfucker who should not have been born in the first place. Meh.
Or maybe "lazy motherfucker" is just a euphemism/excuse/prevarication/my own self-deluded dissimulation of my own complete lack of talent, etc.
Garsh. Die, bitch!
The kid's watching "102 Dalmations" for the second time.
Spent early this morning at the beach, making "dribble castles" on the sandbar, watching the tide go out and watching it come back in...dribble castles being that architectural phenomenon wherein one takes wet sand between ones fingers or hands and allows it to dribble into the desired formation. The water was waist height for a good 50 yards, almost waveless except for a little foam breaking...
who woulda thunk that I, Nancy L--, would be talking about goddamn sandbars and the goddamn tide.
And I now know what color seafoam green is.
What to say? Ah, yes, afternoon in the pool with the kid while reading trashy novels that I can't help reading primarily because I read past the first page and my sense of Protestant guilt and innate nerdiness forces me to make my way through the entire book, willy nilly and regardless of the agony.
I can say, because of the two shitty books I've read ("The Pursuit of Alice Thrift" and "The Patron Saint of Liars") that I now understand why I don't write novels. You can say that poetry is self-indulgent and navel-gazing. But at least poetry, when shitty, is short and shitty. Shitty fiction is long-winded and self-indulgent and just plain old wack when the dialogue is trite and the observations about the "self" and "others" are largely scatological or masturbatory.
...
There was a time when I cared about making my entries make some sort of sense. That was a long time ago.
Do you think (and this is a rhetorical "you") that I would be better off taking Ritalin?
I just do not care anymore and do not know...
well, I want to say that I do not "care" because my brain is on vacation in preparation for work and more work this coming year as T.A. and thus an underpaid starving artist...
but I think that is just an excuse as when brain is not on vacation I tend towards saying, "oh, I am just too busy to think and to try to write things down in a sensical fashion."
Must remember to read "Art & Fear." Must stop with the excuses. Must not waste time and thus life. As life is short and I shall only end in a mass of dusty bones.
The previous was, of course, worded in a manner that I am not satisfied with. Why? Because I am a lazy motherfucker who should not have been born in the first place. Meh.
Or maybe "lazy motherfucker" is just a euphemism/excuse/prevarication/my own self-deluded dissimulation of my own complete lack of talent, etc.
Garsh. Die, bitch!