I'm in Miami sitting on the back porch of my mother's house with my MacBook and a half-drunk kombucha. I don't drink much kombucha, and the little stringy orange bits floating around are a little gross. At the same time, it's fun to pick them of my face and stick them to the underside of my lounge chair.
This morning I woke up late. A car alarm was going off from 1-4 AM with only brief stoppages. After a cafe and four croquetas from Sergio's, I worked on my little garden a bit. It made me well up with frustration today, I won't lie. Just feeling like this very simple thing, this very simple vegetable patch, is fucked up in different ways already. The raised box where I planted the soil is falling apart. I'm going to have to duck tape a couple of spots so that the soil, if it's mushier after a rain, won't seep out.
It's Thanksgiving and my mother and sister are cooking inside, Nick's asleep on the couch, and I'm a little bit bored.
I started reading Tao Lin's Taipei. Last night I had the idea for a novel -- "Love in the Time of Trump." A Bildungsroman where the protests and atrocities are just kind of in the background, a set piece for what's really just a love triangle with excellent mood.
I'm trying to hone my focus and my stick-to-it-ness.