Drum. Drummer. Drummest.
The uncluttering of my room is like the organization of the soul. My soul is full of books, and papers, and random notes, articles, magazines, half-finished journals, essays, poems, stories, and aborted novels. CD's full of who knows what, storage discs labelled "1, 2, 3, . . . , A, B, . . . , 11, 1A, . . . "
I am almost finished with the book. House of Leaves. Maybe I'll feel a little more centered when it's over. I only have the Pelican Poems and Truant's mother's letters left.
There's something odd about a journal - a place to investigate yourself. Why would anybody write a journal? Even one they keep to themselves, they hope that someday somebody might read it, or they wish only to sort out their thoughts. Me, it's a combination of both.
Once again, Chi-Mas presents this year will be books that I think you should read. I have about two cubic feet of them awaiting allocation.