13 April 2004. This is my 72nd consecutive daily blog entry. That's not really all that many but there were days when I didn't think I'd get as many as a full month of entries. I thought I'd miss today, too, for Geof and I are oof later this morning to Miami to visit Ruth and Marvin Sackner, and then Carlos and Marth Luis. We had planned to leave early, but it turned out that it'd be more convenient to meet Carlos and Martha after our visit to the Sackners rather than before, so we could start later. Giving me time for this, which will just be a few random thoughts.

One is about my sequence, Doing Long Division on Poetry. I printed out the eleven I have in the main part so I could show them in Miami. I have to say they impressed me. I continue to think the sequence a Major Work--in my oeuvre. Whether anyone will ever consider it a Major Work in Our Culture, who knows. I'm crazy enough to believe someone will, though.

I feel I've done about twenty works that are Major in my oeuvre. "Homage to Athena," is one, perhaps my earliest one. I enjoy judging my works like this. I then compare my best against canonical works, just for fun (if I'm in a good mood; I'm not dumb enough to do it when I'm in my null zone, or lower). I always find that my works do more things than the works I compare them against, but I realize I'm a tad biased. I also am comparing everything I've tried to put into my works but which may not have gotten in against only what I find in the works I'm comparing them against, which may well be less, even much less, than they contain. As I habitually say.

Another thing that generally cheers me up is "banking" my finished works. All my adult life, I've had this non-rational belief that my main function in life was to get as many works into my Final Account as possible. I actually have a physical feeling of contentment when I imagine myself inserting a new finished work into the slot in the building that holds The World's Cultural Works. It's exactly as in Monopoly as one accumulates properties, hotels and money! Is this my Presbyterian heritage from my mother's side of the family (though not from my mother, who was a sort of Aristotelian pagan)? Whatever, I've always believed that one is defined by one's works. Money, fame, creature comforts, sexual fulfillment, power, a Wimbleton title--nothing is more important to me. No, sorry, not even World Peace.

Well, aside from my cat. That is not quite a joke: when I've fantasized that my house was burning down, I risk my life to save my cat before trying to save any of my works. That just means, though, that I haven't quite conquered all of my instincts. Or maybe it's just common sense: I realize that a dead cat isn't as restorable as an incinerated poem. . . .