October 1, 2009, 12:55pm

Jenny Scheinman, one of my favorite jazz artists, used to have a regular tuesday gig at Barbes in Park Slope.  I never went.  Then she had a baby and stopped having the gig.  Now I pass Barbes taking my son to school and wish I'd gone.  I hope she starts up again.  How's that for profound?
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I wish I was as fluent in jazz subculture as I am in poetry subculture.
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One of my dreams is to be a jazz writer.  Is the market for jazz writing as screwed as the market for book criticism?  Ben Ratliff, is it?
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It's gray and cold today. Why?
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I should be editing poetry reviews, but I'm not.
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Moanday, Tushday, Weedinessday, Turdsday, Fireday, Satanday, Soonday.
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or, as Joyce puts it, I believe, in Finnigan's Wake:
"Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday."
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Joyce's is more focused than mine, I'll admit.
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When will I be able to walk into a store and buy whatever I want with my good looks? asks Allen Ginsberg.
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When will I be able to walk into the Internet?
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I think I say far fewer things out loud than I think I do.  Only children are perhaps unusually used to conversing with the voices in their heads.
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Did you hear that?
What?
The thing I didn't just say.
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Waiting for an email is like waiting for Santa Clause in August: it probably doesn't exist, and anyway, it's the wrong time.
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Surprisingly, possibly sadly, I believe deeply that a watched pot never boils.  But then if you don't watch, how will you catch the exciting moment?