Oh, it’s been too long, old friend.  Much, much too lo..

Oh, hi.  No, I was talking to this joint. But, I mean, it could mean you, too, ESJ.  Widdle, widdle, ESJ. Koochie!

Someone just asked me what I was good at.

And I did not have an answer.

Because I spend most of my time thinking about all the things I fuck up.  I’ve never stopped to consider what I excel at.

And after a moment…

I went into a bullshit answer about art letting myself fail and whatever, it was total bullshit answer, and the person saw right thru it, and I am an idiot.

Because what can you say.  I’m good at making coffee? I’m good at parallel parking? When so much of your energy goes into etherial aestics, it’s difficult to verbalize just what it is you do. And I in no way consider myself even close to being good.  Being good when oyu are an artist means you are a master and have nothing left to learn. I feel like I don’t know shit.  So though I am competent, I am far from a “good” artist.

Or writer.  I mean, you read how I write.  I’m not being kooky meta, but who writes like this?  There is absolutely no focus! It’s amazing I can ever string this together.  But I guess what you can say positive about that is my writing really makes you feel like you have just been in a room with. Exhaustion and all.

Hey, guess what. I’m watching the Olympics.  And rereading the words below about “not having the power to write” bla bla. Come on.  Power isn’t a fist, it’s a feather. We’re doing this shit.