OK, funky head, dizzy. We've heard that. What else?

Hard to say. I'm surprised at the "up" and "down" quality of my existence. Yesterday I was edgy, feeling cooped up, feeling not well, thinking this is not good, that is not good. This happens, then it's over. One day you're hot, one day you're not. I guess I was this way when I was younger, hard to tell without a journal. I'm obviously fidgety, poking at the walls.

Later. Well, I went by the office during a break in the rain (the sun is now out and the clouds are receding) and did the minimum I had to do for Monday and left. Got home, feeling better, took a look at my referrer log and ended up in the 100 Books list. Poor neglected 100 Books list. Still, I made corrections, edited some entries and added book number seventy-four. Tells you about my progress, seventy-four out of an advertised hundred, but well, what's to be expected?

It hadn't really occurred to me any of the writers might actually come by and see my comments. For a purported list of one hundred books that had an impact on my life, the comments seem pissy. Well, pissy through a failure of skill in description. I liked these damned books and I'm wondering, as I'm reading, why I seem to insult half their author(s). Mailer would understand (I added The Executioner's Song), just pay no attention. Reviewers are failed practitioners at best without a clue and are to be avoided, so I'll keep that in mind and edit, from time to time, as I'm able. One of these years after edits uncounted I'll look at them with satisfaction. Nah.

Do you really think Normal Mailer gives a flying fuck what you might say about any of his books? Are we delusional?

We are wrapping up a Sunday, one way or another.