America with George Martin, 1975.

I went to see Cat Power at the Troubadour tonight. There was a guy making a scene at the door. He and the bouncer were having words because he had been kicked out for ordering drinks without an i.d. I didn't pity him. And then I did. I'm a softy that way. Never one to hold a grudge.

It was a long, long weekend of glory and exhaustion. I lose track of time. I covet naps. I scowl at unwashed dishes and close the door on untidied rooms. I would rather not know.

The coming week is coming. I have noticed lately that when I look at my calendar, I am sometimes agog at all that I have smashed into the small day spaces. How did I do all that? How did I convince myself that it was possible? There was a time when I believed I could fit anything into whatever span of time. ANYTHING. And then I crossed that naive threshold and started thinking I could only ever do one thing in any given stretch of time. I don't know where I am on that spectrum, but I realize that I do more than I ever expect and still manage to have done less than I have ever wanted. It's not time travel I want, necessarily. It's more the chance at having certain hours over again. And over and over and over.

I had expectations in these past few weeks. And many did not come to fruition. Many days passed in ways I had not expected. Many moments never arrived. But I have a tendency to get caught in that net. That assessment debacle. And I'm struggling against that at all times. When you aren't always taking stock, two things occur: (a) you don't worry about where you are, and (b) you run out of inventory. This is an important lesson in economics.