out like a lamb
No one believed me that Elliott Smith's Either/Or had anything to do with Kierkegaard, but Google confirms that once upon a time he followed his girlfriend out to a liberal arts college in Massachusetts and read a lot of Søren. And then the rest of it. My next-door landlady is gone for the next week and a half, so I am trying to get the loud guitars recorded before then. That fuzz pedal is evil in the best way—makes everything squawk—I stayed up late last night, sequencing the mariachi trumpets on "Chupacabras."
Sunny weather makes me feel that the semester's already over—it's a weird surprise to finish my coffee and remember that I still have to go do something at an institution. I expect one of those happy summers without form: write in the morning, read in the afternoon, drink in the evening, but the categories can blur. Like the good old days of that writing fellowship. I hear the English department tried to hire Michael Chabon for their open fiction position (he lives here), but he wouldn't touch it. Prestige can hang itself—all I need is the means to keep hoarding these bright hours, to do my necessaries.
