Lying low and raising hell

You haven't heard from me in a couple of weeks and reading this is a pleasant surprise. He's back you say, staring loving at my words on your computer screen, but there is a flicker of sadness behind your eyes, a transient flash of despair at the possibility of coming online tomorrow to find that I've returned to whatever solitude I've emerged from.

It is not that that sadness, that apprehension is without justification. After this meeting, I truly do not know when I shall post again. I spend much of my time in this room with white walls and a white door and white fluorescent lighting and a big window with a view of a community with the kind of houses that I would like to own one of next year but which is virtually impossible.

I spend much of my day listening to heart-rending songs like Sarah McLachlan's Arms of the Angel because I do feel sometimes as if I do spend all me time waiting for that second chance, for a break that would make it okay. And of course I work, I work towards that break that would make it okay and it means that my plans for my literary writing is deferred but I know how I am, how much of how I operate is genuine procrastination and how much is the tensing of the muscles so that I can move one particular mountain or the other out of the way.

I have taken time to do an online interview with Nicholas Laughlin which you can find online here. In the upcoming weeks, stemming out of this, there is going to be a heated debate on literature in Guyana and I intend to strike down with great vengeance and furious anger on those who seek to shovel shit in my ear and tell me it's Mozart. If the enfant has gotten older, the terrible has become plus terrible.