Big Brother figure wanted

Blogger is taking an agonizingly long time to add photos today, so I can't be bothered with it for the last post right now. Maybe I'll put them on my flickr page one of these days soon.

The last post is really, really long. I don't expect anyone to actually read it. I think that was more for myself.

I have committed to writing 20 minutes a day. It reminds me of a post from last summer, when I was writing every day and, basically, laughing at Hemingway. He had what seemed to me to be ridiculously easy writing goals for himself. But here I am, unsure whether I can actually manage 20 minutes a day (or a cumulative total of 100 minutes a week). I sure as hell have the time. I have vast acres and long swaths of time. But I also have a bad case of ennui. Ennui cripples me. How do I shake it?

My favorite bar in Detroit is Cliff Bell's. It's so fancy and beautiful. I had been there before, but never to see music. Jen and Deborah and I went to see ladies play music Sunday night. There are little tables with chairs to sit in while the music is playing, which seemed exotic. It also seems like a natural/inevitable progression in my life. I may suddenly be too old to go to bars where I have to stand up to watch the music. My pins enjoy a break now and then.

Last night I watched the Wilco documentary, I am Trying to Break Your Heart. It added melancholy to my ennui, although I'm not sure why. So now I have melennui.

I think it has to do with the creative process, and people living their real creative potential. I feel like I flee from my creative potential, or that it inhabits my home in the form of dust bunnies. At the retreat, the vast, epic chunks of time were motivating, not frightening. I think, sadly, that I feel like I'm not quite real if I'm alone too much. I need to know I'm being watched or something...

la fille de summer

Mollie and I discussed the mysterious water chestnut today at lunch. It's a delightfully crunchy, nearly-flavorless treat, but what the hell is it, we wondered? I have done my research on the matter, and found that it is a tuber that grows in marshy, high-nutrient waters. It is not easy to harvest, and, according to one website, it is quite competitive. I assume this means it will challenge other salad ingredients to a crunch-off, and will likely win.

Hemingway set a daily writing goal for himself of 400 words. Once accomplished, he was free to go drinking. This is craziness. 400 words? It's nothing. It takes very little time. It leaves an awful lot of time for drinking, which makes a lot of sense. Yet he managed to write many books. Anyway, I thought I'd try for 400 words a day, although my 400 would be far less manly than his, but it's not enough most days. I feel like I'm just getting going. Maybe it's a good rule of thumb for those days when one does not want to write at all. Sort of like tellling myself that I only have to go for a walk - more often than not, it turns into a run.

La la la. I feel so lazy. I had a lunchtime drink avec Mollie, and it made me sleepy. I saw La Vie En Rose (Edith Piaf movie) yesterday, which I liked, although it was crazy depressing in some ways. The actress who played her was pretty amazing. Anyway, the French stuck in my head, I am the annoying, annoying person now who randomly sticks French words into sentences. Please stop me now.