Whereas, at some points in one's life, there seems to be a continuous stream of language, at other times the muse is dead. Such is the case for me. I have to do two long papers for my two graduate courses. One will be cake--reflections on the storytelling I learned in my upbrining. The other one will take work--I have thus far turned in bad papers in my first serious graduate course. What am I to do--I seemed to have forgotten how to write.

But I've been reading a lot. Today is droll--it's been cloudy and raining. Jess has a job interview this afternoon. I think I'll have her drop me off to campus as she goes to her interview. Her job search has sucked, ans sucked the life out of both of us at times. It's hard to work up the energy to do things wher there's little stimulation. This is the story and the excuse of the procrastinator. Some need to be piqued into accomplishing anything.

There is no Muse, we know. Only the anxiety of self-expression that seems to be something mysterious. I need to grade papers. More reading, I guess. There is no drug that could slake this need.