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But honestly the hours aren’t the problem. Or rather, they are, but not in the sense that Viriginia Woolf implied. Instead of enduring the hours, I can’t seem to get enough. Where the hell did they go, all those hours? Was that really me, a year ago, playing Tomb Raider for days at a time? My God, what waste. There’s so much to do, 48 voicemails to return, a new (read: merely super-expanded-without-pay) job to wrassle to the ground; my blog surfing cut short, exquisite e-mails from strangers to answer, sponsees to meet, steps to discuss, the gym because I must look good, a freelance writing gig for a friend due tomorrow, errands to run (a paper towell wedged into the coffee maker now that the filters ran out) , six half-read books at bed-side, two magazines at toilet-side, laundry accumulating, the dog (oh yeah, the dog) to walk, kill the television, send back Sopranos season 2 to Netflix, watch Bjork lose her sight sometime this week, start the new writing class Wednesday night, and blog, yes, we must blog, must always blog and have something interesting to say, and said artfully, speaking of art wander dazed, chilled, laughing through the Richter show, dodging docent tours while wishing the monkey boy was here, oh need that form notarized and that check dropped and draw some blood and get eight hours of sleep.

I am sharing a cabin up at Tahoe this winter. I think it’s empty this weekend, I’m gonna go.

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