Friday 13 November 1998

I'm at breakfast at The Hurst once again, how many days this week? I just can't seem to get it together to cook breakfast at home. Or else I just feel compelled to get out of my basement apartment. It's incredibly dark out today, but not raining yet. I have a feeling I'm going to get rained on before the day is over.

I can't seem to get caught up with the earth-shattering events crashing through my life lately—I've lost all sense of time, and all sense of proportion. It's been like a mythical giant has been stomping through my world, and his footprints have been forming lakes that were never there, and earthquakes and floods are creating hills where there were valleys and valleys were there were hills, deep ravines running with icy melted snowcap, and craggy volcanic peaks forming in front of my very eyes, time-lapse evolution shooting up into the clouds, creating a new no-man's land, unseen by human eyes. Oh, good, the food is here. Too much coffee and not enough food and I'm turning love into the Jolly Green Giant.

Oh, this kind of autobiographical writing is always such a struggle. I can't imagine anyone suffering through reading it. I guess the goal is to always have my notebook at hand and write about things as they are happening, and not have to go back to “three days ago” and like that. And stop writing about writing—god that must be boring. I could be like David Foster Wallace and make prodigious use of footnotes. But as much as I think he's cool and experimental and all, I still feel like footnotes would be just laziness in this case, anyway—they're a pain to deal with, to read, and it's not like they're hypertext—they're footnotes, goddamnit—no matter how you look at it, you have to leave the text and go somewhere else, and the worst thing is you have to make that decision whether to read them or not.