Does anyone know if the Livejournal Feed for We Make Money Not Art?
I feel lit by the fall-out from my computer screen even when I’m on the bus. It’s how I haven’t been writing. The result is a litany in my head of things to write, moments to mention; the man in front of me with the fleshy ears and the Orson Wells voice who, when I looked back from the doors to see what he looked like, had lips flecked with foam, or the person at the party whose business partner had bitten out his girlfriend’s eye or how the mail delivery woman has, unsolicited, lent me her favourite novel. I’ve simply been too busy, though in a vague sort of way. I haven’t set aside any time for self-care. My room is a clutter of other people’s DVD’s, other people’s clothes, other people’s books. My laundry is threatening to implode, to cede from the country, to sprout new tendrils of species, to metamorph from silk and lace into sweat-pants and ugly knit sweaters made of reconstituted newspaper clippings of uninteresting murders. I even have dirty dishes. Only a few cups and possibly one crusty fork, but an obscenely slacker sort of thing for someone who never manages to cook a meal when single.
