So I realize that I've spent most of the past week writing about the perils of writing about myself, thereby exponentially upping my level of self-involvement from the zenith I thought I'd reached when I was merely writing about myself. Now I am writing about writing about myself, which is like writing about myself to the second power. And I can only foresee things getting worse, like maybe next year I'll be looking back and writing about this phase of my creative development (or stagnation, or regression; it's yet to be determined), and then I'll be writing about writing about writing about myself, which is a sentence that even Gertrude Stein would look at and be like, wha? And you know, I think there are only so many levels of metacommentary one can engage in before it stops being meta and starts being micro; it's like that Escher painting of the staircases that go both up and down at the same time -- you keep climbing the levels and getting deeper into yourself. Ergo, this post has officially ceased to make any sense at all.
Alice B. Toklas brownie, anyone?