I tried to read an article on Salon just now, by a writer I like, Joe Conason; about Biden and blah blah and I found I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t read it. I can’t care about politics this year. I made feeble attempts, they fell flat. I’ll vote, and we all know how I’ll vote (or if we don’t, who cares), but I’ll wait for the last minute to vote (we mail it) because I don’t care. People will call on the phone and I’ll say “I don’t care.” They’ll knock on my door, maybe, and I’ll say it again. They’ll say stuff when I’m over to their houses for dinner, and I’ll say, “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.”
I really don’t care, it’s true, I don’t. I’m not so certain that anyone else cares, either, to tell you the truth. Let’s take a little informal survey: f you care, send it here (your care). I’ll count the cares and subtract the rest of you and then tell you, when I’m done, how many people care.
So there’s that, and of course I’m desperate for inspiration. I’ve been toiling and bumbling and hating the words I write for too long now, a week. C. said to someone once, maybe to me,”if people don’t inspire me, I’m unnerved.” Or maybe it was, “If you’re not inspiring me, you unnerve me.” It was something resembling one of those two sentences anyway. And what she meant is that she hoards inspiration, I do, too, we have to. We hoard it like … what? Do people hoard anymore? I don’t know that hoarding still goes on in general so I have no comparisons, but anyway, I hoard it, like she does. Inspiration.
It’s terrifying to run out, so you have to snatch up every little bit, you have to be stingy with it, hide it in a small box beneath the bed. And C.’s point was that if someone wasn’t inspiring, then that person, too, was likely a hoarder and greedily feeling her out for inspiration. Hands off my inspiration, pal, go get your own! – that’s what I’d say.
I have no idea what I’m talking about.
Do you see how desperate the situation’s become?
Anna Winger just wrote a book, the name escapes me now … something about “Place” and I read enough about it to be intrigued, to get a faint whiff, a hope of “inspire.” I’ll try to order it on the Kindle. Not every book can be Kindle’d you know. Herzog, for instance, no Kindle. Which is very disappointing to me, because Saul Bellow, now there’s inspiration, enough to light up Kansas. And Herzog in the Bellow book line is likely my favorite (did you see me quote it here?). But Herzog is not on Kindle.
Still. I love my Kindle. I love my mother-in-law. (I love my mother, too, of course, but I’m speaking here in relation to my Kindle). I love C. even though she speaks terribly about her Kindle, right in front of it!
I love Anna Winger if her book with the word “Place” inspires me enough to make a chapter pretty today. I love popsicles. Not really but one sounds good now, I don’t know why. I do love black licorice, though, Nibs. I think they’re called Nibs and they’re chewy little squares of licorice, I love those.
Sigh. Tell me three things you love, tell me please. It will inspire me and I won’t feel so bitter and betrayed. Three things. One, two, three, send them all right here. Hurry, I’m failing! I’m weak. Need - *gasp* - water.
Oh, by the way, I noticed when I linked to this up there earlier, that the A. character looks like Joe Biden if he were red. The hair, I think. Maybe I do care.
(Have a fun day.)