Aquarius 26° (February 15)

Ran to the computer to start this new Blague and the idea left me as I was confronted by something social media still on my screen. Proof that ideas do indeed go right out of ones head. Will it return we shall see. To be honest I couldn’t tell you if it does (or had) depending on what time zone I’m in. Any-wig, I’ve got to be me. Who that is I’m not quite sure. I couldn’t compete with the jocks in high school and now they’ve been replaced in my life with a large part of the gay male population. Either way I feel potentially bullied.

Today we decided at the very last to go out and grab a pizza at this place everyone goes to but we had never tried, despite living around here for the last twenty years. And it was just okay. It could have been delicious but the crust was too burned. And yet, get this, there brand and signage says things like: We cook our crusts well done and so forth. They seem to fancy themselves New Haven style. I really don’t know enough of what that means to criticize them or not. My accomplishments are such that I am still lagging behind and chasing clocks; but on this day I had to stop the madness and relax. And so we did. These past several weeks being the most paradoxical of my life.

I’ve had my debauches and my brushes with divinity, and I dare say they have oft come wrapped together. I am, as I say, acutely aware of the workings of my body while those of my soul go unpronounced. I like when words find me. Beyond what is labelled “deep work” it is simply shutting oneself away, an element of that work, that is the only key, really. The rest is affectation. Sacred space. There is nothing like it for productivity. There are writer billionaires for whom waking up and shuffling into such a sacred space is easy, as every other manner of life is taken care of. It must be difficult if not lonely. The rest of us must create it. Luxury may be living within your means, but it doesn’t mean not prioritizing having ones house cleaned and meals prepared. That said I enjoy cleaning my house, it clears my mind. And really, whose food would I rather eat than my own, besides Stella’s easy or Pascale’s elaborate fare.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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