So! I've been trying to get my fingers back on the keyboard because, after New Years/Christmas/bindle-stiffing away from New York, my work ethic and my writers block have been eyeing each other like an unmanned battering ram and a castle gate (respectively). I've determined that I am my own love of my life (because I can't seem to accept anyone else into that position), but determining how to create a green paper catapult for the siege and razing of my romantic, sixteenth century notion of the tormented writer (complete with parapets and stone and starving peasants) may be harder than anticipated. The slings and arrows of hunger can be subdued with coffee and cigarettes, but hackneyed metaphors are much more difficult to quell.
I've sure been listening to Destroyer's Rubies a whole lot recently. Its a night drive of an album; its an echoing cathedral of an album; its a solitary drunken subway smile of an album.
