The chemicaltaintedbloodfedmeanskinned demiurge that rules Houston has seen fit to piss upon his bayouveined creation for what seems to have been all summer proper thus far. And I defended this place to my western kin only a week ago, steps away from the unfilled grave of my grandmother.
Something awful happened the other day when I was hanging out with Andy and Dave. I was telling Andy about not having written much lately- not this diarist prattle, but the stuff that really matters- and I realized that I'd forgotten what I was supposed to be writing. The name of my novel in progress didn't simply escape me; it wasn't there. It took a few moments for it to come back to me, which shouldn't have happened.
I could fret about this, but instead I'll feel vaguely disgusted and go stare at the last sentences I wrote of Unheimlich, maybe add some more, then read either Melville or Lovecraft. Probably Melville, because he probably turned to drink to take his mind from things, whereas Lovecraft opted for teetotaling. How he got through the rough periods, I'm not entirely sure, but I suspect I couldn't do it the same way.
A hat*: remind me to tell any potential biographers that along with Cathedral's Supernatural Birth Machine, Bruce Dickinson's The Chemical Wedding was one of the records responsible for getting me through my sophomore year of college, and, like SBM, still remains one of my favorite albums.
*Ask Vanessa.
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