wednesday november 28 2001    |    1:07 a.m.

i honestly don't know what it is about getting the irresistible urge to diaryland (v.), and then as soon as the new entry text box flashes white in front of me, i have to run away and have a cigarette before i can come back and tackle it.

but, you know, it's unavoidable. so i'll be right back.

and i'm back. and you know what? the passion is missing from my life.

missing, or on stand-by, or neglected to the point of forgetting.

i think it might be as easy as reading keats again, or carl phillips, or michael palmer. to set off momentum, to remind myself.

why haven't i submitted the josé hierro translations? why haven't i even looked into it yet? why didn't i follow up the album review when i was so close to getting somewhere? why am i so content to settle for Now, when the last thing i am is content, and the last thing i want to be is simply content? (change the syllabic emphasis of that word, and you have something wholly other . . .)

something's gotta happen around here. some cobwebs need dusting off. and i need to stop using the passive voice so damn much. it's starting to affect the way i think.

it doesn't help that i have nobody to talk to. and by talk i mean settling down to some epic conversations, hours-long and urgent. like i would have with julie or fritz or daniel only months ago.

i was spoiled rotten by four years of epic conversation. i want it back. i want to be able to pick up the phone and say "help! open up the maker's mark, dust off the turntable, make room on the papasan, i'm coming over!"

i miss inspiration. the electric charges of my friends.