thank you again (February 1)

yes, it's now February on the East Coast and yes, I should probably be getting some more work done (God knows there's enough of it here/not enough hours in the day), but to be honest I'm rather tired. the kind of tired where you get back from filling up your water glass, sit back down on the couch, steady yourself in front of the laptop you've had on the TV tray for so long that you would find it hysterical if anyone suggested actually eating food upon said tray, and ask yourself, What was I doing? without the answer coming to you for, say, more than a standard commercial break.
that kind of tired.

so tired that while I still have no reasonable idea why Amazon is the only place (to my knowledge) currently offering the Tusk book for sale (and their delivery estimate spiked from the not good 11 to 14 days to the even worse 1 to 3 weeks) I have come up with the theory that my publisher, in a fit of marketing genius (yes, genius), has been artificially inflating the relative demand (you know, the dance partner of supply in the 1960s group, Supply and Demand) of the Tusk book, much like the University of California Press did with the Autobiography of Mark Twain, which no one especially wanted to read but that everyone especially wanted to own once they realized how hard it was to actually purchase a copy.
anyway, that's my theory for the Tusk book. that the publisher's letting the copies out very, very slowly so as to insure a reasonably consistent demand.
kind of like when your landlord installs one of those water flow regulators on your toilet so you end up having to flush twice.
you know, people will buy two, maybe even three copies of the Tusk book on the assumption that years from now they'll be able to trade it for a rent payment or a pair of tickets to the Auburn game, such is the current relative scarcity.

so tired that I have well over 1700 names of people, most all American, born in 1961 and for some I have an e-mail address and for some I have a specific month and date of birth and for some I even have both. but do you limit yourself to just those who are more easily found? what about all those people you really want to talk to, really want to interview but all you know is that they were born in 1961? already there's a one in twelve chance that you've missed their birthday, that they've already turned 50. at what point do you cry, Uncle (or Aunt), and send an e-mail that says, Hey, I'd really like to interview you, but I honestly have no idea of the month and date of your birth?

I interviewed eighteen 49 year olds in the month of January (and this does not count any interviews, any work of any kind on Bob Dylan for the Village Voice (and I did a lot of that kind of work)), and each was both compelling and unique.
and though in some ways I feel like I'm kind of hitting my stride, the larger part of me knows that I'm at least halfway finished, that, not unlike my life, I'm on the downhill side of this project, and that, not unlike my life, I'd very much like to do whatever's necessary in order to be justifiably proud of this thing when it's done.
as Robert Duvall's character says in Apocalypse Now, Some day this war's going to end . . .

also, I went to the library tonight to return one book that the automated system wouldn't let me renew again (yes, again) even though they showed 18 copies available. it was due today, and while I could've afforded the quarter, New York is one of the thirty states that'll get a piece of this pre-publicized historic storm. and I may not want to go out tomorrow if I don't have to.
so I was caught in this kind of limbo: do I want to spend the $4.50 in subway fare to return a book that's due today and that I should've been able to renew but wasn't? or, do I take a chance on the storm, something else pulling me into Manhattan on a later day, causing me to take a break from my apparently directionless (hopefully that's a short-term thing) work?
and that limbo, that indecision lasted until damn near 6:30 when I ran out the door towards the subway, hoping to get to the library before they closed at 7, already preparing to be angry with myself for wasting the effort, the extra trip, the time away from work that, directionless or not, needs to be done, and on the middle level, above the street but below the subway platform, a woman just exiting the turnstyles said to me, as I removed my Metro Card from my wallet, Is that a pay-per-ride?
and I said, Yes, m'am, because when I'm approached quickly by strangers I don't have time to remember that most women up here really do not like being called M'am.
and so she said, Here. This card's good until midnight.
and so I rode to the library and back free, on this woman's weekly or daily or whatever she had that was coming fast upon its expiration date.
and she didn't have to do that.
she didn't have to stop a stranger to do a good deed.
but she did, and it made my day.
and the fact that I have no idea how best to get my arms around more than 1700 names doesn't bother me quite as much right now because of it.
though I expect it will tomorrow.