Don't Dream It's Over

I'm back. Thanks to Valentine for filling in during my absence.
I feel a bit overwhelmed of course. The past few weeks have been pretty devoid of writing, first because of my arm, and after a few talks with Valentine and the rest, due to the realization that writing had become a form of self-sabotage unto itself. A sneaky and seductive one to be sure, but one all the same. I was writing myself into holes, not out of them. Writing missives and pretentious resolutions, rather than just putting my nose to the grindstone and getting on with the fucking story, as they say.
I've been keeping busy with lots of reading, in the meantime. I was sad to see Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell come to an end. How often does a nearly 800-page book seem too short?
But there are many, many more books to read.
In other news... in a weeks' time I shall be done with my cell phone once and for all, returning to the land of home phones and an ever-changing answering machine message. You'll want to call me constantly just to hear it. I swear. I'm excited to be without the phone... my text messaging addiction is out of control, and besides cutting that out of my life, I'll be paying considerably less per month. All around it seems wise.
My music collection is reaching absurd proportions. I always feel I need just a little more, when I am already overflowing with music I will never be able to find time to listen to. During the last few weeks, I've been orbiting around the planet that is Bob Dylan. Beyond his Greatest Hits playing in my household when I was growing up, I never knew him too well; it never really touched me. I went back and listened to his old albums individually, and something just clicked.
I'm a bit obsessed.
I feel like I have a lot more to say, but I'm too tired to go on.
I'm going to go lay down to read One Hundred Years of Solitude and let the donuts I just ate settle.
Mmm, donuts.