Devo is the crier of the human condition; their flowerpots hold all that is sensitive and deep.
Last night I left work, a determined light in my eye, ready to take all words known to man, order them and lay them upon a page. So instead I was called upon by Officers Of The Company to go to a vice president’s home and install his new computer. To say that I am moderately venal is like saying that the Religious Right is moderately offensive. Money is second only to time in my list of things that I Need More Of.
Unfortunately, gaining the money lost me more time, and the energy to put what time was left me to any good use. I threw a ball for Stella (the dog) and went to bed to enjoy vertigo that made me believe I was going to reverse my peristaltic habit. It passed, leaving me puzzled briefly before I slept.
Four hours of overtime is apparently the going rate of a day’s delay publishing my novel…or, to take a different tack, my manuscript is worth $40.68 per page per day to me. Hrm. That’s expensive ink, that is.
I think I shall begin to think in those terms when I am slumped at the table, imagination flaccid before me and ennui drooling from its end, wondering how I ever found the strength to push the pen around with any degree of life. “Lay words to the page,” I will say to me, “or pony up the ransom! This is not a dream you are chasing, this is your livelihood, your life’sblood, your life, draining from you four sawbucks every half-hour! Have you that cash? Have you the margin, fat enough to support such frivolity, to blow the budget’s bucket so full of holes?” Then I can answer me, “No! No, I say, and a thousand more! There is none of the ready to support my doldrums; I must push on!”
I’ve no real point to make. I’m just trying to keep the logophilic gates open, hoping something will stroll through, hands in pockets and amiable tune on lips, willing to stop and pass the time of day with me. Tired.