Muse Sick Mess Age

The blogging impulse is weak. I'm tired of electronic information - I don't want read it, think about it, or create any more of it.

Over the weekend I have been cleaning, digging through junk, boxes of material belongings that either need to be pitched, given to charity, or drastically pared-down. It takes stern self-questioning" "Do I really need this ass-ugly end table?" But there is comfort in working in atoms instead of bits. My home is essentially a heap of books, PCs and equipment, a few paintings, and my daughter's belongings; it was due for a drastic reinvention in light of the fact that my family will grow from two to four in July.

To take a break I visit the home improvement centers, and walk for miles in the cavernous air conditioned spaces. In each aisle, it seems, there is a clean-cut Midwestern couple, in jeans, sneakers and a marathon sponsorship T-shirt, together choosing a caulking gun or some potted soil. It's the Saturday American consumer moment. I try to gamely participate by buying some tile cleaner and standing in line by the checkout counter while Jackson Browne sings about hungry hearts in between in-store advertisements on the sound system.