Sometimes it can be hard to do things. Often it can be hard to do things: outdoor things, outer borough things, other, different things. Often it is very hard. A few weeks back about 15 people came over to my apartment for Art Day. We made things. Different things. Other things. One person dyed clothes in my kitchen sink (this is something I do often, forgoing the usual things one does in their kitchen). Another person painted, people made art. You get the idea. Tonight, in an effort to do something other than the usual things, M and I went to Chelsea for the Gallery walk. We ate first, which was a mistake. Not because the food was bad, but because the art walk starts at 6, not at 8 when we arrived. We ran into MH at the first gallery and as M and I trolled the Art we looked at each other concerned, confused. How was this different from the objects produced on Art Day in my living room? What did the curator see that we couldn’t? We crossed the street and saw more art, but we felt similarly. Am I dead inside? Has my appreciation rotted? Have I done only literary things for so long that I can no longer appreciate things that hang on walls? N, K and I are going to the Kara Walker show next week. I am confident that she could not have made, in my living room on Art Day, whatever it is the Whitney has hung on their walls. If I am uninspired still, then perhaps, the wiring in me is cooling. Perhaps I need repairs.