Reading: Oblivion by David Foster Wallace. First story: Mr. Squishy. I started it this morning in bed. Keeping with tradition, Wallace managed to keep me in bed and reading for an hour or so. I read through hunger. I bet this story is about to shatter me. Picking at Finnegans Wake in ten page returns. Still incredible. Still amazed.
Watching: Synecdoche, NY. Just finished it. This is the 3rd time I’ve seen it. Didn’t cry this time; I’m guessing it’ll take something major inbetween now and next viewing for me to watch again, feel sentimental, cry. Don’t want to think about what that could be. Yes, the movie instills death in you, again. By no means a birthday party. One of the best films around, I posit.
Novel: Still going. Holidays made some lazy in me that I’m slowly shaking off like dew. Around 14k words. Feels right. Need to remind myself of the Milch-mentioned maxim: ‘I don’t think about writing when I’m not writing.’ Work. In the writing you’ll think about it as much as you need to. In the conceptual sitting-on-ass-and-not-writing moments I feel myself afraid. Thinking too far in advance, etc. Enough of that.
Days ahead: Travel planned. Finally get to hang out with Bobby Alter, who set me spun with this story. Do yourself a favor and read it, repeat it.
Sleeping: Not great. On a shifted schedule; was staying up to 5am, 6am. Weening myself back with wakeup times. Hope to join humanity again, within reason. We’ll meet in the middle (hence this 2am post). Bed now.