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like a carnival ride, writing a book is crazy-fun, but when it stops it leaves you very dizzy (and possibly ill, depending on how much fairy floss you ate on the way). i finished another rewrite a week ago, but i'm still in semi-hiding. i'm restless to be a vagrant again, but oddly agoraphobic. impatient, and also without purpose. this is the first time since it began that i have felt my saturn returning, and it is a complete bastard.

so instead of letting the ringed one get to me i'm trying to keep busy. reading lots. getting driving lessons, which is humbling. learning to weld at tafe, which is heaps cool... they have a whole room just for grinding. i am also attempting to make a banjo, for no reason whatsoever.

the restless irk was compounded a bit today because hecate arrived in the mail. they published my long turkey poem, which is awfully dense and urgent and youthful, and reading it makes me sad. i am homesick for homelessness. it was nice of them to print it, but i feel guilty, as though it was written by somebody else.

i have the desert-summer-threshold blues, the creative-comedown blues, the carnival-is-over blues, the i-used-to-be-fun blues (wait, i was never fun), and the you-must-be-this-tall-to-ride-but-you-shrank-in-the-wash blues. if i had a woman, she would have left me, and for all the right reasons.

mmph. i'm goin get me some whiskey.