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The least of what I write

Friday 9/15/23

This journal is the opposite of Twitter.


Yesterday I worked straight through from the day before until 4:30 AM, then was up and working again before 8. Wasn't some remarkable day of production but I gutted through enough things.


Finished another story, plus a film piece and jazz piece. This morning I must go through two Beatles pieces--making sure one is okay, adding a few items to the other--and get them back to the relevant people.


But with yesterday's efforts, that means I have written and/or finished twenty separate works in just a few weeks.


And that is separate from this journal, which I write in-between other things. In "down time," such as there is any. Almost every week, there are at least 7000 words in these pages, and typically more--the "least" of what I write.


It's in the fifties--where the temperature should always be, in my view--right now so the AC is off--hopefully for good--and the window here at my desk open.


I downloaded Ornette Coleman's Hillcrest Club show from 1958.


The Red Sox fired Chaim Bloom. A four-year mistake to have hired him. I see what these other teams like the Braves, Dodgers, and Astros are doing, and the Red Sox aren't close to that right now. You have to be an annual contender in a market like Boston. It may seem like a silly thing, but I bet the $1 ticket affair the other day with most of Fenway empty influenced the decision. John Henry strikes me as that kind of person. He wouldn't care but then something like that would make him care enough to do something. Bloom will have another job soon enough in a market that is better for him.


I got three little pumpkins--the medium-sized little ones--for outside my door.



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