On the ferry – just read the first chapter of a chick book. A birth, two births, it was poignant. I was briefly caught up in it and then came to. It was too pretty and I found I didn’t care. One life, one fictitious life, didn’t seem to matter to me so much. I would rather write about a thousand births, or a thousand troubled births. What can you do about a system that makes thousands of births difficult? Why, get caught up in one person’s drama? That’s what I do with myself every day.
Twins were born, the male fine, the female mongoloid. The father sent the female to a clinic without telling the mother.
Before this I read Bill Bryson (funny), Greg Palast (depressing, troubling), Kurt Vonnegut (funny, troubling). Then I guess it was Don’t Lets go to the Dogs Tonight.
I’m so uninspired. Must walk to work. I wanted this. A job. A paycheck. Now, it’s just a nuisance.