2/28/02 9:30 PM PST: Time is not on our side.

My guarded optimism is sliding, sliding back into a kind of spiritial ennui, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.

Had a long talk with the main man, El-Boogie, last night after karaoke. Everybody pays attention to me, because I'm all steel. Few do so with him, because his confidence is shattered. I told him, "there is no inherent reward for the good, any more than there is any inherent punishment for the wicked. Things happen. That's just the way it is."

I got an email from my collaborator on my top secret "Floyd" project, and it did not make me happy. He was supposed to sign a contract regarding ownership and intellectual property rights. He tells me, "I'll be able to commit to this project right now because of my current financial and living situation." This is after all the art is done, after all things are said and we await word from on high. I, of course, don't wanna catch a bad one on the business end of a lawsuit (that'll be a good segue in a second or two), so I have to calm down and be less angry and explain my position to him.

I've become very disillusioned with collaborative art, especially from the position of running all the business myself. I'm gonna get back to pitching, which is a lot less heartbreak.

Speaking of lawsuits, I've served as an Instrument of Justice (tm) in the past day, serving papers for a former employer of my pal Daniel. The last part, standing in line at small claims court, was tedious but is now complete. I'm slated to do the same for my bud Inpu, to serve his divorce papers to a woman I never got along with, his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Poetic justice and what not. I'm just trying to dish off the paperwork, I don't even like that on my end.

Funny memory that brings up: I wanted to sue a lube joint over by Virgil and Beverly for draining the coolant from my RX-7, making the engine die horribly and screwing me out of my mode of transport (it was a cute car). I did everything but get them served, and they got away with it. I realized, today, what I did wrong all those years ago (this was 1995 maybe). I'm just really bad with paper forms and checkboxes and details of that sort. I can tell you every single step in setting up an ecommerce site, though. Part of the benefit of my current living situation.

So ... writing. Loosening up the writing muscle. I've written more since my birthday than I have in a year. I'm getting into a groove, and I just have to press it into productive prose.

I have two weeks to get my Cave Canem application together, so I can drive my crazy self out to Pennsylvania for the workshop. I've read some disturbing things about flying, and I'm something of a private person ... more and more so every day actually. I plan to drive to Pennsylvania and San Diego, working the craft and honing the skill. Some people are concerned with this, but I give less than three farts in the wind about what people think.

I always find ways that people marginalize my importance funny. "Gotta wake up for blah, don't bug me on Tuesday night after you get done with the paper." Until some anorexic co-worker shmuck calls and has a Tuesday night party, and suddenly work is unimportant.

Sorry, that's non sequitur, I don't wanna talk about all that right now.

Anyhoo, I think I'll be doing more of The Crown sooner than later, as my earlier plans to work on Floyd are now clouded with rage. I can see me digging up the Faraway novel and getting that polished up as well. Prose has never let me down, prose has never broken promises, prose never neglects.

Blog blog blog blog blog I go. Mmm.