eTHAT MOST BEAUTIFUL SEASON OF THE DAY

Greetings from the 5 a.m. shift. Can it be that my excitement over LA is interfering with my sleep patterns? I don't consciously think about things to write about but who knows what is going on in the part of my head that I don't know anything about while I sleep. Perhaps I was dreaming that I put this all behind me. That my life had shifted to a plain of such utter bliss that I no longer had time for this nonsense and was having pillowfights with angels. Enough hyperbole. I face a crisis of sorts. I am tired of having four followers-- actually three, I don't count myself. Not that they are not people of the highest caliber and not that I don't love them. But I want to share the wealth more. My technical prowess is nil so I might have to borrow the computer skills of a twenty-something who can probably make LA more accessible physically, but substantially will very many people want to slog through it anyway? No, LA will remain LA and it will have few followers. If I lose three then I will be the only follower. But will I stop? Not a chance. I will stare at myself writing into the mirror for fifteen minutes each mormning and try to figure out what I am trying to say. Something about the act of writing, audience, fame, self-flagellation, futility and macaroni. I just don't know what these things are yet. But I am, as you can see, desperately trying to find out. I am a striver. See me strive. Does one have to strive for something specific or can it be a general sort of strive? Or is it a generational strive. Or perhaps it's just the enjoyment of my fingers going plinkey plink on this keyboard which has a nice bounce to it.What does this have to do with morning? Not a fucking thing except that I wanted to use that quote from Thoreau. Take care of yourself. Don't drink and drive. Stay with me. There are so few of us. It's going to be very special.