Postcard

On a postcard I picked up at the NY Art Book Fair last weekend, tacked to the wall above my desk:

"Playful talent wanted. Must write well."

It is something about the writing. Of the writing. First-drafts looming over me; the revisions usually more quickly executed than initially thought, but the time first. Finding the time, as if it could be locked up and stored for later. But if that were the case no one would be afraid of running out of it.

Or running out of thoughts. Not quite penetrating deep enough for a new one to emerge: this is such a difficult point to judge for oneself. I try, I think I try. Is this exhausting?

I cannot move enough. When I am sitting, I want to be cycling. When I am running, I want to be reading at the same time. I don't know where the time goes, really. The digital numbers move up or down depending on what machine I am on, but always moving towards the conclusion. Lifting, sets are monitored by seconds, minutes, rest-periods and exertion. My heart-rate monitor my constant companion.

I have not had a good work-out in days.