comedy ain't going to write itself

Much has been going on it seems and each day is so weirdly far different from the last, but then it all fades away and you wake up again wondering what's to do. There's a returning to and back again between "wanting to kill yourself" (colloquially, hyperbolically) and "being totally accepting of death and the idea of dying at this moment" (genuinely). The former is nothing new but the latter is unusual-, uncomfortably calming. Doesn't help with sleep. I'm sure much was lost in the flood.

There are details, details, but they slip away. I think that perhaps it's best simply to do another interesting day as opposed to attempt to remember what happened; but, when you're an old man in a bed in an old folks' home (if that happens), what will you do (i.e., with your time)? Reading old letters makes me small.

Though unrelated, again in January and February I'll be teaching a course in comedy writing at McGill. The first time 'round the course went apparently quite swimmingly and hence this time it is happening again. Students kept returning to lecture each week, they said they learned something, I was offered places to crash in different cities, we had lunch.