today was a microcosm of my life--one of those days that become everyday

the village voice gave me a pazz and jop poll (no money) and couldnt buy a peice because of space.
took the peice to todd on stylus who is publishing it on wednesday, and agreed to do that w/i 5 minutes.
chris is selling flim.com using my name--he put some fotos of mine up a while ago, in this forrest of indie poets
i worked for a few hours thinking out the anglican peice, which i will spec over to sojourners, who doesnt take pitches--but i have thot about it for weeks.

chuck eddy reads my blog, mark sinker reads my blog, momus reads my blog.

i have become a cult writer--and w/o fanzines and little magazines, w/o small critical magazines, because of the web, cult writers pay their own ticket. (reading hunter thompsons letter collection about his success and lack of post hells angels--and chasing money, begging money, theating, cajoling, seeking and giving sexual favours--this was w. evergree/ramparts/rolling stone/etc etc--there are no ramparts.

(i have received three invites in the last month to write though--one of which i will do and i have a book contract--no advance, no promotion budget, 2 year wait, agent taking chunk of royalties...)

another example:
i want to go to portland to see my monolouge (which has become strangely arty) premier, and there is no money to send me and i cannot afford to send myself

i feel on the verge of giving up but then something happens to push me off the edge--a nice word, a publication, a small cheque--i have made less then 1k in the last year and a half writing...

when do i give up.