I keep on posting things and taking down the posts. I went on FB and asked whether I should get an MFA (such an abject thing to ask, for some reason.) I took that down. I am in bed on a Sunday - John is at work - I've begged him to bring home Sophie Calle books, the ones that the Art Library doesn't seal up, I feel so much less free without my own library privileges like I've used and abused everywhere else I've lived. I never got an ID from NC State, although I'm teaching an Intro WGS there in the fall. I'm reading Adrienne Elsen's Making Scenes and read some of Letters of Mina Harker and reread some of I Love Dick, which is so fucking good I could read it everyday, but it's very intimidating and anxiety of influence and all that. I wish I had called Heroines a novel. I think of it as a novel.
What I mean to say is - I'm a little insane. None of you know me - I mean KNOW me in my material life - so I will tell you why - I'm leaving in a week for Europe for three weeks than will return home to hermitage and humidity for another three weeks - I always go a little nuts before I go out of town. Plus, I'm jumpy because of this essay, I'm unsure whether at this point the essay is insane or banal or dumb or brilliant or obvious and should be more drifty, like Chris' work.