I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Monday, March 24, 2008
To My Own Private China...
I dig all day and get very tired.
I know that I can work harder but I'm lazy, wistfully nostalgic and have a hard time focusing. When I finally put myself to sleep for a bit and wake up the next morning, the first thing that I do is go into the backyard to see how much progress I made the day before.
The hole is always filled back up AND has mounds of dirt on top. Who keeps on doing this? It happens everyday. I don't know whom or what does it but it's frustrating. Give me a hole. Just one day - all I want is a tiny ditch, a grave, a concave mark of progress. Maybe I need to be patient, maybe I need to take my vitamins with regularity, maybe I need a partner or to hire some cheap labor, maybe I need a better shovel, maybe I can transform myself into a Constructicon?
One day though, I'll walk into the backyard and a perfect grave will await me...and suddenly my eyes will flutter, my Coke can will drop on the grass, my legs will give, the world will fade to black and then......
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