why, i wonder, are you not blogging more? says von to me, as he comes online.

i can't help that - it's too hot to write - too hot even to read. he is writing on a beach, but i'm in an attic room with a tiny window and only a rickety ceiling fan which, were it older or prettier might pass as romantic, like in old coffee shops in katong or saigon, but isn't, and the room is, as a result, suffocating. i think lky must be right about air-conditioning and productivity. i don't know why i bring up von being on a beach, seeing as i should find it even more annoying to write out of doors, especially with sand and sea spray (beach, forsooth!), but i expect it encourages his writing. there isn't a desk to work at. (the bed, the natural alternative, is no good to me, because of its position (on the other side of the room from the ceiling light, and under the slope of the attic, where it is shadowy) i spend most of the time in a kind of semi-drugged sleep and half-dream of burning rooms, or else i'm running about bothering administrative people, who confuse me to no end. in between trying to do some work (unsuccessfully) i'm reading all the things that didn't fit into my storage boxes so that i can justifiably mail them off home and ignore them for a while. i have also consumed an unforgivable number of donuts, which haven't even the passing merit of being krispy kremes. this is only because i am mostly asleep in the days and wake up hungry at odd hours and a dunkin's is the only thing that is open 24 hours in these quarters. i don't think this is much of a life. and certainly there are no flowers in this half-life, which depresses me. but perhaps i'll go and see the glass flowers again.

on the glass flowers, i can never stop thinking of "sunday morning" and the mark doty. and of course this article, which i've linked to before, tells much and comes close to how i feel about the collection.