My favorite squad is faltering! Its star is over-thinking himself into a slump just as we enter the final week-plus of the gorgeous, heart-wrenching pageant called the Pennant Race.
Meanwhile, I've reached the period of "writing" in which I cannot, will not, do not write. It mirrors my ill-conceived idea of giving birth, or better, my idea of being "infested" with The Thing: something is happening inside of me. Something that is of me but not reducible to me. I walk around my office squatting, grunting, bending, breaking, and not playing The Long Run on the 8-track deck. I fill the wastebasket with spent fruit leathers, and I try not to drink coffee after noon because even with melatonin and Tylenol PM, I wake up at all hours and dream about things like TB-laced-afterbirths washing up on black and white shores.
