I'm down in my spirits lately; flipping through my iPhotos on the caltrain and wondering what happened. Looking back on good friends, good times. Ren Fayre. Realizing that was a long time ago, almost two years. Nostalgia is a gloss, I know, but still. Even though I'm well aware that my inner monologye is often rife with angst and pathos, this latest turn feels somehow different, more severe.

I look back on what my life used to be like; 20 or 30 hours of work a week and almost limitless hours for creativity and fun, realize I'm profoundly tired of fighting.

But I'm not loving either. That doesn't seem to happen to old me, captain of inertia, newly hewn heart of stone and all that jazz. My limbic system is quiet; my blood sluggish. I couldn't get baccinalian if I tried it seems. Running low on the old outlandish swagger. I am tired/I am weary/I could sleep for thousand years.

This worries me. Will I become one of those tight and nervously bound creatures; the kind who sieze up and shy away when you tickle at their root? I used to be more brazen and thirsty when it came to seeking pleasure, but as of late knotty tension has become my albatross.

In the grander scheme of things there's plenty of hope. I still get excited with the wheeling and dealing; would that I could write more openly about all that, but suffice to say you'll know all about it soon. I still get a thrill from solidarity, still enjoy goofing off. The world is still arousing, just in a more whistful and less full-bodied way.

I miss the old network, the old support, the old goals and magic. Childhood's end, and I miss my Peter Pan jive. But something big is still going to happen, and I don't trust the course of human events to work themselves out. I hope we can win, and I hope if we do I have the presence of mind to start playing again.

What would Allen Ginsburg do? Breathe deep. That's a good place to start.