A branch got caught in my rear bicycle wheel and somehow fucked up my fender and wrecked the wheel’s alignment, and while I was eating falafels on my walk back because I was afraid I was going to fall over from eating a bagel for lunch I received an email from the fiction editor at X, which has had my small book for ~4 months, saying oh I liked your changes personally but I passed it onto the publishers and they’re not sure now if they’re going to publish it because it is fragmentary (yeah uh) or incomplete (no) which is cool and great considering how many other attainable or possibly attainable publishers have asked me about it in the meantime (2) and I have said to them “Sorry? I guess not?”
Something else happened, uh, earlier I received an email saying I didn’t get OGS funding, and finally I’m meeting C later tonight (after postponing our last meeting) and I’d rather crawl into bed or fall down a flight of stairs and thinking about work makes me want to cry uncontrollably. I can do much better and I don’t know why I keep doing this job. It’s good to get more money from a job (as I have received) but not if it’s still not enough or only barely enough and not if the job is not worth doing.
There’s a limit or a breaking point and I feel demoralized and like I have no time to do anything that’s actually or urgently important to me. I want to slide onto the rocks out by the Beaches and lie there until the sun comes out of its hole and turns me into a warm and fragrant paste. I could sit out by the Beaches and look at the ocean every day and I would be filled with a warm peacefulness and even if I wouldn’t accomplish anything necessarily I would at least be a kind of alive. “What stymies you in this situation is that you have a motive at all.”