Realize I have to have a two-way relationship with the guitar, not try to lord over it, master it. Add to that a relationship with my nerves at the same time, a tricky three-way - how to keep a three-pointed boat even-keel as it rocks and rolls in cascading waves.

Curious about all the dull details I'll never know about all the people I'll never had relationships with, people I'll never live fifteen, twenty years with. Something to know and to love, the minutia of affect and annoyance. How someone might take out the trash every once in a while to con me into thinking he's contributing - trashy sweetness.

Grand sweeps of experience, huge fishing nets cast with hundreds of thousands of fishy moments, nothing left but net. I put on a big sweatshirt lying around as I do my day of work at home. Good to wear my lover's things; this is something like filling in the fishing net. You wear a piece of his experience. It's informing you, you are possessing it, those chemical creases and folds.

Rumblings underfoot this week: I blew off all my work. I wrote a song rhyming gin with sin. I practiced the guitar a hundred times and then flubbed onstage so bad the audience cringed. I forgot to do my Weekly Rite until thirty-six hours late.

Make a shrine of it - four walls, a roof and a floor. Write the name on the door. Then take a big step back, make a Cu Chulainn grin, swing your big sword, and smash it down to the floor. Pieces fly everywhere and soften into the ground.