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Tuesday, August 28, 2001
Blah
By Paul Ford
Basically, I suck.
All I've been doing is working, and the work is quite hard this time, outside my natural range, so I've been learning new skills, and some Hebrew.
Some things have suffered; my raw-creative-box-brain has atrophied dangerously, until it becomes a a small dark walnut-thing that rattles in my skull. The sunsets are beautiful. I am lonely, lonely for palpable things, for people and smells and lights.
All this to say I know I'm not writing and I know the deal; I know that people stop by and are disappointed and annoyed that I've been lazy, that they'll give up on me without more input. So I'll try ASAP, but I have to do the stuff that pays, that I feel is best for me in the longterm. And I really don't have time; what time I have is spent sprawled in bed or sucking in words from some book or other, or going out in Tel Aviv. But I've insisted to myself that I find the time; I am only smart and useful when I generate 2000-3000 words a day, only truly myself when I can backup my brain nightly. It's in my best interest. So soon - it just really is a lot of work. First I have to write my parents, and write some letters on paper, then I can come back here with some new ideas and the desire to set it all aflame and begin again. Next Monday. I promise, I promise myself.
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