CLIP CLOP

I'm starting to have fantasies of the working life. (Wait, don't check my head for bleeding yet!) See, for the last six years everything has been some tremendous project, with some tremendous consequence. This or that term paper, poetry manuscript, concert, zine, presentation. The point is, I feel that constant brilliance is always at the bottom line. This is obviously unhealthy and self-destructive. Anybody who knows me knows this as well.

I'm starting to think about the possibility of having a job that I go to every day and then LEAVE. You know, not bringing home any work with me. Then I would go home and read modern novels-- not even weighty, intellectual things. Just novels. Maybe I would finally have the energy to keep a clean house and cook for myself on a regular basis, work out regularly. Basically, to have a humane, satisfying routine.

I wouldn't want to do so for the rest of my life-- it seems pretty obvious to me that after six months or a year of such a routine I would be dying to move, to hop trains, start up the messy (yet productive) factory of my inner bohemian. The same factory which, at the moment, whose fires are constantly in flux and obviously very, very dangerous to stoke.