One of my father's retinue of not-terribly-funny-but-often-told jokes involved a guy hitting himself over the head with a hammer. Why? "Because it feels so good when I stop." And that's the thing about working too much or too hard. Just being able to read the paper and copy CDs in your pajamas feels like winning the temporal lottery. Shit, I may even go hog wild and take tomorrow off too.
It's 9:45 here in LA. I am getting caught up on the continuing decline of the American empire, drinking fine coffee brought to me all the way from New Zealand, listening to the Damned (by the way, I did conclude this week that "New Rose" is one of the finest songs ever recorded in the history of rock and roll), and thinking about eventually taking a shower and getting dressed. Going to Santa Monica tonight with two of the people I admire most, and really, all's right in my world.
Of course, I have already compiled a mental list of ten thousand things I want to or should do with my time in the next two days. This is my mental illness: I regard all passage of time as a sort of reverse Hannukah miracle, whereby I can somehow squeeze eight days worth of work into one day. Perhaps at some point in my life I will come to better acceptance of the limitations of being human. Not there yet... Regardless, even if I only vacuum and work on my latest story, it will be enough. Life is good. Dayanu.
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