And now the rust and the mysterious wonder chicken

I've spent this last week trying to recapture the writing. The ease, the voice, the words falling on top of one another in a seeming intuitive, natural sequence. This probably more than anything puts too much stock in last week's writing, considering that everything is better in revision, but frankly I can't find a voice right now and my layering upon layering of thoughts is not creating a cohesive or interesting whole. So be it.

With the rest of the week, what have I done? Downloaded tax information. Went to a hockey game. Ate way too much chinese food. Washed laundry.

And now, I'm awake and way too alert and am needing to move onto something again. I'm not sure what right now. It might be time to write a pulp. I need to refind that smell of blood.

* * *

As some of you may know, I live on the Nostrand line, 2/5 in Brooklyn. I work in Midtown. And that means I get green (as in line) to travel there. Which can be a nightmare. Overstuffed, musty, the lingering of somebody's flank just so from your nose for at least twenty minutes of the trip. But I've never seen anything quite like this. Enjoy, kids, it's less nightmare than sheer bliss.



Oh yeah. And please notice the judicious refrain from the word "funky" anywhere in this post.