Labor Day

People compare MacDowell to a mausoleum -- albeit one with life after 8 am. The comparison is apt. We eat together, are isolated from the world up on a hill. It is quiet most of the day and spooky at night. It is a bubble.

It's a laboratory of wild and experimental thought. Never have I been so alternately terrified and furious and happy and depressed. The emotions come fast and hard and then they are gone, given over to an entirely other set of feelings.

I know it's jarring loose some shit, though I think it's going to take a while to figure out exactly what's coming out. I'm writing like a damn demon. I plan to have 3000 words down on this Czech project by the time I leave to go to town with Judy and Ellen at 3 today, and I just started writing it on Saturday.

What would make it peaceful?

Could it be peaceful?

Can I be peaceful?

I know the answer to that last question is yes. I'm just not peaceful where most people are peaceful. I was peaceful listening to the chickens scream this morning because they wanted out. Others' conflict. That makes me peaceful.

Like you didn't already know I'm a sick fuck.