Time again for another vague entry about intentions. I am not all that busy I am just easily distracted these days by books. I may move from music to books but exactly how to type and read at the same time is a puzzle. I could write an entry on the day's reading? I could write all about Carol Kennicot and Erik Valborg. But then, it might be better for you to just read Main St., who knew it was so brilliant? It is interesting that this American insecure elite/patriotic homespun divide has existed for all these years, it's incredibly relevant even today.

Update: My commission check last month was huge. I am the world's worst salesperson, even still. This is a strange time, people are in denial about the doom that is so near. One day someone will wake up to the poverty we have locked in with profligacy and it will be very ugly. I think about someone involuntarily, always and every day, I am certain she doesn't ever think of me. I see this person every day. On purpose. I have a lot of mental energy recently. I have been writing, I have just not ben writing here. I don't mean to neglect my one reader. I am in a writing workshop. I have been furious with my fellow attendees, flashbacks to high school when we would be forced to send our papers around class for "criticism" and my friend Lisa and I would laugh at all of the idiocy dying in the margins. This could be why I haven't any friends.