Not really. Figuratively. I have a bad case of wanting to do nothing. And sadness. A friend of ours from the old church lost his son to cardiac arrest over the weekend. The son was maybe 48. Sucks.That’s all I can say.
I’ve spent the day reading porn from Sinclair Sexsmith’s Sugarbutch Chronicles. All I can say is that they know how to write. She writes porn that holds my attention. And makes me what to be sexual again.
Alternatively I am also reading Black Reconstruction In America, by W.E.B.DuBois. It is an admirable work for its scholarship and DuBois’ consummate skill as a writer. The author’s Marxist perspective is not concealed and, because of the openness, the scholarship is not compromised.
But I’m emotionally fatigued. I’ve been obsessing over trains. I want to watch the same train pass through Galesburg, Ft. Madison and La Plata, as if following the same train is some great feat.The LA-bound Southwest Chief #3 is passing through Ft Madison now. I must say the view here is stunning, yet again.
J works and sleeps.
I have lost a lot of motivation. I am sure it will return. “There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues”, goes the refrain of a Sixties song. I feel them. Living down South, the summertime blues go with the territory.
I have a kinky story idea that I should write down. Maybe in a couple of days.
That’s about it.