Not that I don’t feel like writing or don’t have ideas. It’s that I have a certain (uncertain?) ennui hovering about me. I almost wrote “like a shroud”, but, Lord what an image that is. Is “like a shroud” like a shroud? Like a death covering? is that what this has come to? 7 novels and a passel of fascinating characters running around in one of the most wonderful periods of history. Shame. Why not just take the bull by the horns, like my Uncle Lloyd used to do at the July 4 rodeo in Willits (not “Willows,” dumkopf) Ride the galloping the horse, leap off, do the aforesaid action, and end up rolling in the dirt with a quarter ton or so of bull (or steer). Who wouldn’t want that? Victor’s cup goes to the rider who can get the animal on the ground with head and legs pointed in the same direction in the least time.

Usually, there’s no prize for speed in novel (or poetry, or any kind of writing at all, except maybe journalism under fire), But you at least have to do a BIC, otherwise known as Butt in the Chair. I’ve been wandering my butt here and there and everywhere else but this writer’s chair. Seat’s getting cold, and so is my creativity. More later. I hope. Watching the buds on the branch.