Good Morning

I've just woken up to one of those moments when you don't quite know what's going on, but you're happy that you managed to pass the time in this manner. I hung out tonight with a couple of friends. After, Erin and I came back to my house so she could get directions back to her place. She began sweating profusely, as tonight is one of the hottest ones we've experienced thus far this summer. Cornelia every once in a while complained about the high temperature, made worse only by the humidity. Her girlfriend did, too, although not as much. So Erin left. I ended up calling her back to ask her a question, and I discovered that she was lost in Harlem. I talked her to the West Side Highway or the Hudson something or other and she was fine. Cornelia took, what I think was, a third shower and she and her girlfriend went to bed. I was just kind of awake. Trying to think of something to do. Erin was getting back to her girl. Yani, with whom I spoke for about 20 minutes on the phone, had to get to her boy, and Cornelia retired to bed (she's not in bed anymore, but I'll get to that later ... it's not a big deal, but to tell it now would disrupt the already tired narrative I'm constructing).I thought of what to do 'round midnight. I could blog. I hadn't done so in five days or so. Besides, what was I going to write about? There are people out there writing about Haliburton,

, presidential incompetency (a topic I enjoy engaging in every once in a while),

(there's gonna be trouble in them woods -- but we don't know what it is exactly), and

Central Park lawns rather than granting protest petitions for

New Yorkers. During the day I feel the desire to write about such things only to find out later that "the moment I sat down before the machine I became self-conscious" (Plexus). I also considered resuming work on my book. I've got a page so far. Whoa. A page. No, I didn't do that, either. There's a little bit of fear there, I'm willing to admit. It sounds so serious: "My Book." A friend the other day told me that (and this wasn't necessarily directed at me, she said) there are so many people who are writing memoirs who are young. Me, being only 31, what could I possibly have to write about. I didn't continue that conversation with her. I feel I defend myself a lot, so I wasn't in the mood. But points of defense had crossed my mind as she talked. Didn't she know none of us were guaranteed a long life? Or that if I waited, I could end up creating something as lengthy as "The Rosy Crucifixion"? Perhaps I could already, but the minute the thought crossed my mind, I chastised myself for believing I was comparable to Henry Miller. I realized recently that the more something is in front of me, the more I build something up, I end up recoiling from the strength I gave it. Writing. Relationships. The dark. So I tend to build up writing, but soon after shrink from its significance to me. Or what I perceive is significance. So I fight with it. It grows behind me like a shadow with arms, following me wherever I go, filling my mind. I write in my head. I have to remember to write about that tonight, I say to myself. But when the time comes to sit in front of "the machine," I freeze up. I believe that, because I don't want to write about the aforementioned topics, then I shouldn't be writing. I know that's bunk, but it's how I feel sometimes. So I just went and stretched myself out on my bed. I put my head where my feet go. The light was on, but I closed my eyes anyway, despite the encroaching heat. I believed I'd make a decision soon and, at the very least, return to Henry and June (my Miller obssession is alive and well). I woke up at four instead. So I made myself an iced soy chai latte and sat at the machine. It was a good way to pass the night. Perhaps I was able to sleep through, because I haven't been sleeping well lately. And perhaps I feel I can't write now because I have a lot going on in my head. I always do, yes, but I'm usually able to think myself through to a reasonable solution and move on. Not this time. Not for two weeks. And I don't like it. There is no reasonable solution in sight to my current issue, which, like writing, is following me like a shadow, reminding me of the psychological warfare I'm a part of. So that's why I haven't written. Many reasons and none. My guilt is not alleviated, but hopefully I can resume a semblance of storytelling. Hopefully the upcoming RNC will give me things to write about that have nothing to do with me. The weekend has barely started and already I am eager for Monday. Not a good sign.