Easy to see how people get consumed with the meaninglessness of work. Meaninglessness, OK. Work, something to do in retreat. Attempting to surface with grant-making to Japan (Japan, please have me), well foretold, I think, by a dream earlier this week in which I am serving sake to Mr. T. Also, in bike ride along the lake and an all day spent outdoors and Ethiopian free jazz. Also, in gallery-ing night to a cavernous warehouse of electrified cellos playing in dark corners and canvases and white walls making a thin, new guise over hulking structures of industry. And then to a gutted bar down the street where a painter in bankruptcy hung his work under rusted punched-tin ceiling nymphs, in a room also adorned by a refrigerator and a column of BTU’s. The story of his life a study in echo- living in towns with the same name, creditors, creditors. So less easy train reads and US magazine on the treadmill. Must get back to throwing heat.