Love these stretches when you can't remember what day of the week it is and then you realize it doesn't matter. Today's Saturday, I'm pretty sure. Too lazy to find the calendar or check the Times home page. Doesn't matter.
Found this in a notebook in what looks to be my handwriting:
A work of art, an original work of art, should come down like the Day of Judgement. For the faithful, it is the moment of consummation, for the wicked (which is most of us) it is a terrible, terrible experience.
Genius or gibberish? Or somewhere in the great in-between?
Taking full advantage of the weird week to hole up and read until I'm blind. Tearing through the Postdramatic Theater book, cracking A Thousand Plateaus, finished the Kandinsky, I'm on a tear. Also picked up two Dave Matthews CDs at a Goodwill up in Connecticut on the drive home from Greenfield. I missed him when he first came out, never really heard him except for the astonishing Ants Marching thing. Not bad at all. Serious musicianship, that's for damn sure.
More nog, please. Thank you, James.
Everyone have a good New Year's Eve. And if you find yourself shouting at and/or undressing a complete stranger, it might be time to go home. Alone. Or, it might be the start of something wonderful. Judgement, as always, is yours alone.