what is the use of a violent kind of delightfulness if there is no joy in not getting tired of it

I am back on blogging, temporarily. I have an addictive personality - this is something one says, about the self, this is very aughts-coding-of-identity, I have an addictive personality - and once I'm off it's hard for me not to want to get back on. Anyway, my infant plague has ruptured into a full-blown terrible terrible cold, one of the ones where you have to be in bed but you cannot even DO anything really in bed except use up about 100 tissues an hour. I wish I could be this fluid in my writing.

This morning all I have done is write out an interview with Chris Higgs at HTML that he's doing with  experimental writers which I suppose c'est moi - so I thought about it - experimental writing - and thought fondly of Deenie: by Judy Blume. I am a very monogamist person - at least with John - in my private life - but I am an extremely slutty person in my writing projects. Or not: slutty: slutty is wrong. Or slutty is good but slutty is the wrong word. I mean: unfaithful. I am an unfaithful person in my writing projects. Most of my notebooks consist of me trying to write around another writing project, trying to cheat on another book with a book, I am cheating on Heroines with Deenie: by Judy Blume, actually when I should be cheating with Shadow, and for years and years I don't get projects done, mostly because they are too busy cheating on each other. The greatest joy I get from writing is the writing around, the writing notes about - the stuff of the viscera before everything is altered and channeled and changed and formalized. I circle around my projects so much I allow them to self-immolate and cancel each other out. All of this burning.

Still have to post the talk, which I will, although if you've read the blog in ye olde days you will recognize bits of it because I fairly glibly plagiarized from myself.

Oh: Read the stories of Mary McCarthy on the train, including the one where the girl fucks the business guy on the Pullman train out of curiosity or boredom and this written in the 40s! Mary McCarthy is the new angel I wrestle with - like her best friend Elizabeth Hardwick.

And I'm not yet on cold medicine yet still loopy. The worst time for an elephant to come sit on my chest.