“… instinct dictates our duty and and the intellect supplies us with pretexts for evading it. But excuses have no place in art and intentions count for nothing …”

–Marcel Proust.

When I read this it hit me hard. Not that I’m not doing anything these days to further my art; far from it, because I’m posting on Chicagoist 2-3 times a week and continuing to sell 100SP. Yet I’m mired in my dayjob. Rather than helping me really (other than, umm, paying the bills and allowing me to live comfortably, which of course counts for a lot), it’s something I feel I have to get through each day. And my “own” writing, Tiny Apocalypse and other prose stuff, is going absolutely nowhere. Mainly because, if anything is going to happen I’M the one who has to make it happen. No one’s helping me. The same goes for my film work. For crying out loud, I’ve been looking for a 6-plate flatbed for 9 months and still haven’t been able to find one I can access.

As Proust wrote: all excuses, every one. But it’s so fucking hard. It’s frustrating to have to wait for Time to get around to making up its so-called mind, and to have to put in the hours waiting for it to happen. And sometimes it happens very quickly in other people’s lives, and so slowly in mine.

In other news, today at the office I bought 3 boxes of Girl Scout cookies. First time. Some kind of landmark.