Alright, so it is 12:42 here and I have class at 11:30 in the morning with at least 3 hours worth of paper-commenting required beforehand. I know that were I a true legitimate fisherman, this would be nothing but a daily call to action, but as I am not anything anymore but someone scraping around the experience of making a life, I cannot say I feel fully up to the task of a complete explanation for my absence.

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I lost (was lifted of) my camera on the recent trip, and it feels like part of my heart has been plucked out.

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That aside, everything is so perfectly beautiful that it's enough to make one wonder. I mean, I don't have a lovie besides the true adoration I feel for poor Herald who is so disrupted between the week I abandoned him to visit my friends and the fact that I today/yesterday gutted my apartment for all those things that constitute "art action," with the effect that he can hardly fall asleep without waking every two minutes for fear that I am an great big abandoneer, and thus needs to prod me pointedly with his fuzzy snozz and look at me with those angel eyes all through the dawn hours, which of course further cements my determination...But!

Okay. Ever have writing students? Ever have writing students who can't connect one thought to another? Each paragraph is a regular patter of variegation or surfing or those tiny wires that space stations use to connect themselves like umbilical chords to planetary explosions and the little superspring wiring coils that sproing from universe to fantasy, with little wisps or maybe memories...? Ever notice how memories either grow exaggerationally or fossilize according to mental constitution (nothing in between), and now that we're talking about fossils...

I'm scattered these days.

I have a studio starting up. I've decided to name it after the press name I've used for the few littlebooks I've made. Ideally, it's just a little place to make, a place where my friends can make, or where friends can lend me amazing creations to show during 1st fridays, or collaborate with me, or maybe a place where I can make friends, or a place where I can create - friends (characters), possibly just a place to create, but then maybe a place to figure out... other options, maybe makingish business options; nobody's opposed to making business options, but in this case, maybe options might be made in the midst of a bunch of smitter-splatter. That's the idea, all that. Some discipline, some just a place to work in.

I'm scared to death truthfully. Herald can come though, he's allowed, so it'll be okay. But I've never learned to incorporate making with life outside school, so this is my endeavor to legitimize my illegitimacy. If you think that idea's bunk, I dare you to guess how many people have said, with relief, "Oh, so you're finally moving off your folks' property?!?"

No, no, actually I still am a social failure with regards to self-sufficiency. No, actually an art studio's not a place to live except for when the burr is under the skin. But, well, I care more right now about being an actual writer, not just an art student, an eternal student, someone who always takes the school loans, or even a teacher or big faker at one of the only things I ever wanted to do.

Chuck came today and helped me assess the space for wiring and work bench. Mostly he (and my dad when he saw it) was concerned with fire escape. We made plans for a window break and knotted rope to climb down. I refrained from mentioning my thought that every damn fucking thing I've ever made will be down at the bottom long before I ever will climb a braid of hair. Anyhow... bad wiring, old building, ideal location, opening First Friday July, don't worry, I'll never burn up, but I'm still setting everything up, searching for furniture, assuring myself that this is the right move, and that in between the extra class I last minute snapped up (thus the busyness I didn't expect, didn't want, but that pays for it all, but distracts me from making use of what I'm paying for), I will start something, yep yep, and finish some projects long lusting after the finish.

Balleyhoooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Can't believe my camera is friggin' gone, because trust me, a photograph would change all of this.

Oh, and how about a comma-splice recapitulation of the past month or so? Yes? Here goes: Roller Betties rock, took my mother, recognized the ref and thought her lovely before realizing she's too young for me to crush on her (no young lusts like my dad), whupped ass at air hockey, drank too much, sucked at air hockey, danced with someone who seemed to think me too dangerous to even give a name to, heard from old friends I thought I'd never hear from, oh - that reminds me, good trips to Denver and Phoenix [art walks, new folks, wind gusts, dust, heat, snow, heat, hammock, reconciliation, heaps, bean bags, homeless men saying "fucking bitches like a pregnant white trash whore with no trailer to crawl to," gymnastics in the back yard, barbecue, truncated baby-statues with Midwest Dolphins (I didn't much like Denver except my buddies, sorry folks), missed old friend (weird feelings here), Herald licking the phone when I talked to him, missing him, thinking quite a bit of my little fellow, red rock hills, Jerome, pizza and red wine on the crest, sushi away from the ocean, prickly pear margaritas with the unclear family], and then since then, the green sneaking up around these parts. I drove home through the foothills today thinking there was no more incredible lit place I know, and that's including the observation that this sometimes resembles a dead-end for me, except for what I try that's new, except for when I try to see it as a space not a location.

I'll write more later, I guess, although I can't imagine when.