The name of the day matters not, but it is always the same - a blundering, blurred, viscous sort of an intellectual misfiring happens upon this day, Monday as it happens, and nothing can be solved.
Working in fragments currently, little dislocations of text and title, sorting and sifting through each chapter (currently headed CHAPTER) and breaking the paragraphs' hardnesses. It is as though each formed collection of sentences has grown cold since I last wrote them. They were stiffened in advance of what-was-t0-come-next, the grand finale - that otherwise known as The Plot. Today, I warmed them one by one, snapping obdurate recalcitrants of an old exposed by-plot with revived, convivial run-ons and sub-clauses.
It could be my saving grace, the fact that I have taken this long to close the first of many circles and complete my first draft. Older, better read, more impatient, less British - I am none of these things now. Slowly it comes together, like rock brought under the magic duress of a spinning gravity. I am slowly, slowly pulling the thing together. And what for? Best not to ask.
Potatoes and spinach are cooking downstairs, the house is full of steam as night drops its wet blanket around our little suburban house. For days and days in the past few weeks I have become increasing concerned with the events in the car park outside. The bins are frequented by dusk visitors, midnight cowboys and dawn creeps. What's going on in there? I like to sit in there and read Pynchon just to scare them off. I know how your networks work, I offer silently, through product placement alone. I've got your number, I've seen your rhizomes and I have heard your whispers (origin not stated). Cramer, Deleuze, Popper - they're all coming round later for hot schnapps. Occasionally I go outside, pretending to repair yet another fault on my ailing bicycle, but I never catch them at it, whatever 'it' is.
We played music last night, five players we were, and I don't remember a single note of it. This could mean that it was the best combination of flailing electronic rhythm, delayed screams, oscillator soloing, radio onanism and tape pillage the world has ever seen. It is probably unlikely, I don't even remember going to bed.
Tomorrow holds the future, I will plunge once more into inky to-do lists, hoping to scratch another line from my life of tasks. Then perhaps I will turn to the novel. Why don't you write something funny? people always say. I haven't read a funny book in ages. They always go down well.