Innerer Schweinhund

Two more weeks of work before I get to go on the lam, become a vagrant again. Meanwhile reading Lucia Berlin's A Manual for Cleaning Women, almost an analog to Jesus' Son minus the subdued violence, and thinking about all the places in the world without a near-daily mass murder problem, without the background radiation of casual misogyny too, if I'm having a particularly utopian fantasy. Every day I try to wander my way back to poems (it's a slow autumn), or to the top of Grizzly Peak on my bike and back, but the innerer schweinhund is well-fed this time of year: ambition gone to the dogs unless one could name as their primary ambition collecting black-and-white panels of Ernie Bushmiller-era Nancy comics. For a time, every year around the holidays, I do.