Forty years old today. Stocktaking. Thinking of what I'm glad for, what not. One of my most glad things is your friendship.
That said, everything else seems trivial: reports on the condition of the jungle today.
By now you should have the first 200 pages or so of Worthy Bones. Probably, the most intensive stretch of writing I've done: a pace I'm already unable to maintain. But while it happened it was exhilarating to see it coalesce -- perhaps as it was, in the beginning? I feel pretty good about it so far, but of course don't know whether that's anything more than throwing myself a bone for the trick. Does it in fact seem to be 'taking shape' instead of just being a pile of shapeless old clothes thrown into a forgotten corner? Have I dropped any stitches? Probably be a peculiar hump-backed critter who'll wind up fleshing out the stitchery, but can he walk, does he have bad breath, dirty toenails and warts, or is he just a slab of meat cooling itself in the butcher's display case, on its way to becoming shit? Maybe I should go back to poetry.
V.
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