Consumed with domestic issues lately, a large part of which is an upcoming move. I move at least every 12 months. Since 2005, i have lived in six places. Before that it's just as bad, but I was in school so that doesn't count somehow. I hope to stay in this new place for a while. I think I'm getting frustrated with not having any roots. I wonder if it's natural to be afloat like I sometimes think I am. Although there is no doubt in my mind that soon I will be restless again, I'm looking forward to something tying me down a bit.

I will be setting up a darkroom in the bathroom attached to my room. There is some extra space at the top of a stairwell that I hope to use to visualize some installations. Assuming I get it together and register for the class, soon I will be learning etching.

Pull it together. Pull it together. Pull it together.

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I have just read (in five hours) Haruki Murakami's Dance, Dance, Dance. The man is amazing, although after reading a few of his books there is a tendency for too many plot points to be the same. Not enough to be formulaic, but enough to illicit a sort of, "Oh, that again" feeling every time a character walks into another world or there is a precocious and beautiful teenage girl. For that matter, every time a thirty-something man living alone eats well, appreciates jazz, elects not to sleep with a beautiful woman, drinks some whiskey and goes to bed only to have surreal dreams that he can't quite interpret and decides to go along for the ride.

Not that I could write any of this any better. And not that it stops me from devouring his books. But I wonder how many more I can read before, like Tom Robbins, they all get a little less revolutionary.