I’ve been feeling pretty sorry for myself the past few days–I can’t seem to actually do anything. I go to do it but then the road is closed, or it turns out the road is not a road but an angry serpent, and I am standing on its sensitive toe. Most of all, and I think this is really pathetic, I have been feeling bad because other people seem to think I am a woman, and they have expectations of me because I appear to have breasts and a soft/sensitive handshake and maybe a faint mustache that I must have to have waxed, etc., and I wear certain clothes. And it seems I really am a woman, like other women.

Everyone has ideas about what women can and can’t do, even women, and this has also been a reason that I feel like an old puke stain on the carpet. On Mondays I watch videos, my favorite is “The Talking Dog”…

Blah.

So basically I feel like old wind, and it isn’t a very fresh smelling wind, like sour goat milk, and the only thing that has picked me up a little is thinking about Robert Walser, especially this,

I am a kind of artisan novelist. A writer of novellas I certainly am not. If I am well-disposed, that’s to say, feeling good, I tailor, cobble, weld, plane, knock, hammer, or nail together lines the content of which people understand at once. If you liked, you could call me a writer who goes to work with a lathe. My writing is wallpapering. One or two kindly people venture to think of me as a poet, which indulgence and manners allow me to concede. My prose pieces are, to my mind, nothing more nor less than parts of a long, plotless, realistic story. For me, the sketches I produce now and then are shortish or longish chapters of a novel. The novel I am constantly writing is always the same one, and it might be described as a variously sliced-up or torn-apart book of myself.