Midnight. Cannot sleep. Despite exhaustion. In bed, in the heat, dead silence, working, hard, on "Staycation" in my head. For whom do I compose these works and when will they be seen? Will they? Why am I ceaselessly driven to give more of them to--to whom or what? Why do I operate around this idea of certainty that there cannot be enough of these works, that people will always be grateful that there was one more, always one more, it seemed, for them to turn to next? Who owns the eyes that will run atop and absorb them? Why am I trying so hard to reach people, so many people, whom I do not know exist? Are they nice people? Please let it be so that they are born already and well into their lives in the here and now, and not people who will not be alive for 200 years. Let me be here for this. Let me know these people. Let me see them. Let me lay eyes on them as they lay eyes over my work. A midnight Boston catechism. I have universes within me and I am ready, I am so ready, to give them to the world, to share them with the world, if someone or something would just give me the backing.
I sat at the desk today from 6 to 3 straight. At 3:15 I left for Charlestown. Climbed the Monument five times, walked three miles. I seem to be sweating inordinate amounts. The temperature was only in the 70s, the humidity around 80, and still my shirt could not have been wetter if it had been in a pool. In a few hours I must focus entirely on a succession of works that have the greatest chance of getting me paid.
I know mostly only very bad people. A few good. I am so tired and it's not I'll sleep for a bunch of hours and not be tired tired.