the world and things. I do indeed

do things here. It is easy to get into

a period of passive observation

and not mention my morning dancing

with my plants. Or late morning brunch

with the trapeze woman. Or volunteering

to show young children the wonders of our

"vibrant costal areas".

There is a woman in Vancouver. She creates

these stunning photo collages of her every day

activities. I wonder if copycatting is flattery

or simply an inability to find an original format.

But if the pictures are unique, is the story they tell

likewise original?

In Texas the Gentleman Friend decides

which form of Mayan he will study for his disertation.

The difference is geographic, to visit the mountains

or spend time in the rainforest? I think about

fascinating problems. Dilemmas worth having.

Transitioning between many projects at the moment

jars the mind, uncertain what to work on next. This

despite a plethora of things available to be worked on.

The resulting cacophany is disjointed, and leaves

only snippets of thoughts for memoir poetry.

watch the world go by and things change.

Things change, and there are movies I didn't see

and parties I was not invited to, but my schedule

is already full and I avoid as much as I can.

Halfway to my wish, and still not an angel in sight

I dream of a woman I never kissed

and skip attending an outting with a woman

I'd like to. This is not a love poem, I do not know

how one writes those. Biography? Perhaps a tombstone

which reads "should have kissed more girls".

then I collapse, cancel plans. Because two days is almost

too much as it is, and my schedule is booked through October.

I was once reading something about writers having love, friends,

and a creative life, but only ever two out of the three at a time.

I guess it's good the boy went back to Texas. Friends,

I had been missing those for sure. Writing-- where did you go?

Today's goal was to work for ten minutes (and not a second longer)

on the boat book. But at 1:10am (prepare your wish now) even

ten minutes seems like more time than sleep would allow.

Still. Being busy is a sham, to believe ourselves in that state

and act of self-disempowerment. I am surrounded

by new picture books, illustrations to inspire-- and a deadline

that quickly creeps closer by the day. How do you show visually

the concept of memory? of dream? of imagination? of vision?

Whatever the answer is, I doubt I will learn it from

yet another night out at the bar with new friends.

and I don't believe in diets. Our boss

is the worst, he comes by and says

"I would never eat that much pasta for lunch,

a second on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,"

and then he walks out again, as if that had ever

EVER been an appropriate thing to say

about someone's lunch. I retaliate by leaving

mini bags of M&Ms and fun sized snickers

on my desk, just to see who I can convince

to eat them. It is entirely petty, but the

only way to handle my hatred of their

continued self-loathing.

(for good perhaps?) over the week in Canada; perhaps

we trade in all our vices for something more ephemeral.

Yet still the return is full of lists and goals another other

mundania of sounds and tasks. Slept through New Jersey,

slept away the evening in a feeling of overwhelment

didn't realize how tired I was of the city until I had

to stand in it once again, really, who stays in New York for August,

if there is anywhere else left for them to go?

make french toast at home, and even put those tasty

little almond slices and powdered sugar on the top.

But it wouldn't fufill the same urge for people watching--

the waitress that overflowed the water glass when distracted

by a bee that had flown a little to close-- plus I enjoyed

the yellow walls, and the choking warning sign that had been framed

and hung prominantly as art inbetween the impressionist work

of the 59th street bridge-- feeling groovy-- and the metalwork--

form and function-- holding up the range hood.

Afterwards we walked to Gantry State Park; I sometimes grow tired there

as if the park is sole blame for city ennui. Gorgeous, yes, but a place I visit

only when there seems nothing better to do-- a feeling I abhor.

Tonight, company. From Philly, old friend, we saw him last in Pittsburgh,

early morning breakfast with friends of friends we did not know.

I should clean before he arrives, in fact, has already arrived to the city

and even now on his way to the burroughs: prepare the guest bed to be

properly inviting in appearance, and tidy the detritus of a creative life.

Tonight, we may go see either one band, or that other one, unless we

get roped into going to that party in the city, or worse yet, that other

party in New Jersey. This is my last summer in the city. I don't want

to spend it partying in New Jersey.

and a University of Texas hoodie two sizes two big for me.

Took a photograph entitled "Sill Life with Rice Cooker". I'm not lazy, just insane.

The thought of going in to work left me in a puddle on my couch. For a while I

stared at the wall and hummed a tune I just made up. I should copyright it;

make millions. I'm brilliant, didn't you know? I told the baronetess that this wasn't for poetry.

I think I might have lied. Sometimes, I do. Days like today I end up feeling

that my life is too cool for me. I know it's too cool to let anyone else

live it for me.