The Week Where, Oddly Enough, Nothing Got Done

…if one were feeling particularly depressed, one would say: that’s every week.

It’s not so much that nothing gets done. It’s more that there’s so much to do that whatever I’ve done during the week isn’t even making a little dent in it. Maybe a faint smudge at best. I keep telling myself that I have to take a long-term view. Books take time, unless you’re some sort of frenzied prolific genius. And I’m not. (Damn.)

I’m trying not to let this sense of urgency get out of hand. Ideally, I could just ignore the clock and take my time, write the book I’ve got in my head, y’know? Instead, I have this horrible sense that time’s slipping away and if I don’t finish it this year, I’ll never finish -that it’ll just turn into a death march and then spiral down without so much as a whimper.

I have to stop thinking about this. MUST… CHILL. Except it’s impossible to relax when you’re shouting “MUST… CHILL” at yourself.

RIP, RAW

Quite possibly the only fitting memorial for dear old Robert Anton Wilson, who died last week, would be if you immediately went out and read A Selection of Obscure Robert Anton Wilson Essays (via 10 Zen Monkeys).

Meanwhile, I’m putting a re-read of Prometheus Rising on my list.

RAW’s last blogpost, a few days before he died, ended like so:

Please pardon my levity, I don’t see how to take death seriously. It seems absurd.

A few days before that, he posted about the new Thomas Harris, Hannibal Rising. Said it was, in his view, the best of the lot. Goddammit, I disagree most ferociously. In his defense, he was dying at the time.

Bada-boom.

He died like I want to die, making humourous remarks and generally fucking about, beloved by the Internets and having written a great many fascinating books.