  I can only imagine what Id feel about this story had I been alive when it happened. This is the second night now that Ive sat still to watch some more of the media rehash of the Kennedy assassination. I never really felt much about it until this time around. The conspiracy theories exhaust me, but its the story as a /story/ that has me more interested. Makes me want to go back and give that Don DeLillo book another shot, the one where he rewrites the life of Oswald as historical fiction.
Id begun the book while in Italy, but it was a bit too distant from me at the time to really sink my teeth into it. Story. I keep thinking of plot devices while showering or vacuuming. Something paralleling the poetic flow of energy involved in those activities. Not that I can remember them now (and of course, to reveal them would compromise the punch). Its all a lot more than a device being implemented, but theyre key to the craft. More important that the actual creation right now is the potential to create. Theres a sense of possibility Im indulging in. a potential outlet of energy that both gives shape to and generates more possibility. I want that life. I want to do this. I need a mentor. I need a world of writers to help guide me, provide an example for me to emulate.
None of these academics who reside outside of that life. And of course not more semiliterate friends. I need for my writer life to move from my private time alone to more of a centrally integrated position. How do I do this? The Elavil and Risperdal are kicking in. time to crawl into bed. Silky black pajamas matching my fuzzy pants kitty. 
