…was yesterday. I had the idea that I’d still have the day available to me by taking the 7:45 am flight instead of the dlayed one that I had opted outof. As it was, Ididn’t really get much sleep at the hotel, so the early morning rush meant that I was tired and irritable on the flight home which was so crowded that I had to check my bag (something I hate to do) and also to endure the scrum as people fought to get their bloated “wheelies” down the aisle to the exit. By the time I got back to Sterling Street it was verging on 6:30 pm. And I was nodding out. So much of what I had to take care of didn’t quite happen. Today has been a bit lighter of an experience. I’ve been reading Jonathan Letham’s book of essays, “The Dissapointment Artist” which is intriguing and galling because with each sentence it reduces me to a type, the same type he is, and at the same time it makes me ponder the flimsiness of the critical examinations in my own writing. So reading letham and then struggling to put into practice the principle of spending a good 30 minutes on something as opposed to sitting in the procrastinating haze that is my usual weekend state. Not so easy to do. especially once I get onto the computer which is the portal to endless distraction. I managed to 30 minutes in on the laundry. Which is good news.

On this trip I bought Queen’s greatest hits to convince myself that I was wrong when I decided that they sucked and that I just didn’t get it. But as I listen to it now, I was right the first time: they really do suck. Eno’s “here come the warm jets” however, excells.