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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.

Slow’s been the holidays. Food, overeating, family, clothing, maintenance. December isn’t a bad month for maintenance.

I look at the story I’m writing—Solip—and I’m confused and full of faith. Kierkegaard and Wittgenstein talk about the inextricability of faith and confusion.(?)  Søren said this:

But the absurd is a category, and a category that can have a restraining influence. When I believe, then assuredly neither faith nor the content of faith is absurd. Oh, no, no—but I understand very well that for the person who does not believe, faith and the content of faith are absurd, and I also understand that as soon as I myself am not in the faith, am weak, when doubt perhaps begins to stir, then faith and the content of faith gradually begin to become absurd for me.

Take that, add Camus on Sisyphus, Sartre’s Existentialism is a Humanism, Ludwig on facts and language games but mostly on the mystic, Vonnegut after a pack of Reds, Joyce singing and Wallace loving, add ice. Blend.

I want to build a car.

I spoke to Zach Dodson tonight for 56 minutes, on the phone. We talked about books. We spoke about secret stuff (not so secret now, is it?; like a known unknown).

Feel like the videogame industry has been stagnant lately. Slicker versions of safe models, etc.

Reconcile your liberal guilt and eco-friendliness with pleasure driving, chump.

Making myself deaf. Blame hip hop.

Big story writing zone, novel or movie, is my championed.

Blake said this: unwavering maturity is immature

That said, to play favorites: Mark Leidner makes me believe.  Mark and Blake and December.  A month of mathematics.