I have decided that the reason I can't write anymore is that I am surrounded by people here who are the opposite of inspiring, the opposite of challenging. Novocaine for the brain. If I read the old folks I respect, I am impressed, I respect them, I admire them... but I don't get that terrifying, hopeless feeling that spurs one to battle. Perhaps it's also a constitutional flaw, that desperation is my most frequent and reliable motivator. Well, being around these people fills me with a different kind of desperation, so that can't be it.

Where is the writing that is alive? I wish I could go back to the times before having read Calvino, Stein, Rushdie, Dickinson, etc etc etc. And good old Brenda Shaughnessy. Then I could be amazed and inspired all over again.

Why are people so dumb?

Okay okay, I'll try doing something actually constructive for a change.