The Virgin of the Smokestacks
is an endless optimist...
Month: May 2003
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These words yearn to escape the awful plight of sitting latent in my stale mind. Once attached to robust imagery like ‘a summery garden picnic’ or ‘raucous fans in the stands’, they now huddle meagerly and impatiently together, detached for the most part from any thought at all.
I’m sitting in a coffee shop on a humorless Saturday morning, gazing out the storefront windows, and watching the wind and rain make mischief upon the luckless who are stuck commuting out of doors. As the wind blows by, my words flutter with excitement believing that they, too, can take wing on a breeze and win release with a lift-off of new meaning. But they’re fools, these words. They are. Their fluttering is creating a reverberation in my head that’s aggravating my post-hangover discomfort.
I know, I know, the little bastards think they’re cute in pretending to the occasional expression of semi-ballistic bliss that they deem some form of poetry. But I’ll whip the asses of these little pretties, I will, before allowing them to cajole me again into a literary orgy where I end up playing the hapless harlequin before their queen and kingliness.
Fucking good-for-nothing words. I need sex, not merely more of the imaginative inspiration they alone get off on. If I could, I swear I’d submit these words to a gross act of dominating bestiality to teach the nouns some proper respect and show the verbs what decisiveness is really about. I’d take the words ‘good girl’ and make them spread, ‘open orifice’ would get a mouthful, and ‘tender bashfulness’ would be sadistically bashed into their first orgasmic flush. Oh yeah, there wouldn’t be one damn virgin word left in my head when I’d get done. Then, post-coital, they could all commingle together, clinging embarrassingly to the dark but unifying meaning that my mastery of them impellingly infused.
And you know what? I’d bet after the rawness I ripped through them healed a bit that they’d all come crawling back for more. Oh yeah. Little masochistic bits of alphabet—they’ll become my good little bitches yet. Just wait and see.
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Might you be interested in viewing or even downloading marvelosuly illustrated antique children's books for free?
The Rosetta Project has made available an abundance of beautifully illustrated, often rare or currently unavailable, children's books from the 19th and early 20th centuries for your perusal.
I just downloaded the "Beautiful Book of Nursery Rhymes" and am having a daffy-swell time using my browser to bop through it.
ooo ooo here are the directions:
1. Select book from library Page
2. Select download entire book button on individual book's index page.
3. After download is complete, and the zip file has decompressed, select "open file" from your web-browser.
4. Browse to the folder of the book you just downloaded, open that folder and select the file: "index.htm" to take your browser to the html index page of that book.
5. After reaching the book's index page, browse the book, which is now saved to your hard drive, just as you normally would on-line.
Okay...okay...so I'm just a little boy at heart.
*poof*
...the Dead-Tree Faerie just turned the Bogeyman into pumpkin pie.
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Lately, my capacity for deadly seriousness has been expanding greatly. Am I becoming predisposed to some yet unseen personal matter of mortal destiny? Or is the world itself, or perhaps the country, or just my region, or just my city or neighborhood, gravitating with ever-growing sobriety, and I, with appropriate empathy, encompassing it?
Still, I must remember: In matters of worldly affairs stay deadly serious, but in all other matters float light as a feather.
*floats off on an un-worldly upwind*
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Quite the difference, this evening, than the work-o-night of last:
The cemetery now (since Memorial day) remains open until dusk instead of 5:30 PM. Dusk around these parts now descends around 8:40 PM. Hence, more running and writing time!
Just ran 5 here in Dreamland, but won’t write much today. It’s so tranquil that even the soft click of the keys on my laptop risk to offend. The sun is purring in unmitigated intoxication and I have no ambition but to sit and soak it in.
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I was glad that I could please someone today: a young teenager named Becky who was waiting for her PC that was re-formatted and loaded with goodies by me and delivered this evening. Now she can read her backlogged e-love letters and chat with her cuddly buddies online.
That PC delivery and setup shot all other use out of this evening, however. Except for a retreating thereafter to a little lost coffee shop to play with a button that I occasionally press that says “Try Me.”
Try Me : Well, I certainly should, more often and even with varying approaches, I’d quest. Trying Me is undoubtedly less entertaining than much, if not all, else that tempestuously tosses itself at me as a diversion everyday. In fact, Trying Me is practically no diversion at all, but rather an unconstrained yet focused effort to discern that single point of assemblage that channels the psychic disposition.
First, set off upon a meditative musing, relax, relax, relax. Let one’s immediate concerns flee like children finding glee in a Release from the Dungeon.* Feel diffusively, in one’s vicinity, the vicarious swirl of energies spun from the inequilibriums of so many incompletely differentiated entities pulsing through life’s gauntlet (ecologic empathy). And as you feel it, you realize that you are a part of it. And you realize that the world ‘merely is’ energy and an attentiveness to its fluctuations is the construction we all call ‘time’. Then, when the quiet ecstasy of this localized yet anchorless energetic collective has completely embraced you and you it, surprise and confront its entire inertia (and yourself by inclusion therein) by decisively directing one’s psychic awareness with extreme splattering prejudice upon it. This is accomplished by switching, with swift intent, one’s scattered perceptual ungatherings over into a vortex of voracious energetic assemblage, thus steering the convergence of temporal fluctuations into a simultaneity, and allowing the world as a singularity to brand its imprint upon one’s psyche qua audacious collection screen .
Word of advice: Don’t “Try Me.” unsupervised at home. Instead, “Try You.”
* In the game Release the Dungeon, children divide evenly into two sides, one which hides and the other which seeks. The seeking team’s goal is to capture all the hiders (by touch, not just sight) and bring them back to a ‘Dungeon’ or fairly large, designated line-in-the-dirt ‘box’ (picture, perhaps, one-third the end-zone of a football field) that one or more of the seekers is usually guarding. When more hiders are captured, typically more seekers tend to stand guard about the Dungeon. If all the hiders are captured, the seekers win and then take their turn becoming hiders. However, captured and en-dungeoned hiders can be freed to flee back to hiding by any yet uncaptured hider who storms the Dungeon and crosses its boundaries without being touched. Hence, the guards around the Dungeon act like goalies attempting to stop the penetrating attempts of hider-liberators while other seekers are out hunting for still-hiding hiders. If the Dungeon gets successfully released (as often, when I played, it would
), the seekers’ supreme forces of organization fall prey to the rampaging mirthful havoc of hiders once again at-large. -
Thus I start another week: mused, amused, and bemused.
Now, how to transform myself into an idiot savant who’s only permissible functions are writing, running around Dreamland, and drinking beer? How (?) , damm it!
I just realized: we don’t merely ‘live until we die’ . We steal life back every day until death makes us a rotten robber.
Somewhere out there the Death Faerie’s eyes sparkle with my demise.
Hunger on, dark sprite of ever-beguiling wiles. For, once again, I’ve found a way to slip like a thief into night.
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I ran in the cemetery today, ran hard, just 1.5 miles—but as fucking fast as I could . And when I got done, and revived myself pulmonarily against a respectable obelisk while slurping down a can of beer bubbles, I looked up and saw a metallic silver balloon uninhibitedly, stringlessly, and weightlessly cascading less than 100 feet above me over the ever-dead (the Un-Energizer bunny) and I.
*immediate psychic intercourse with my last post*
But that’s all right!
Here’s a secret: I wanted to run after it, float up, and catch it!
Instead, I’ll descend. I’ll descend 1 meter below your Unconscious. Wait…
,,, … I need to adjust. Aha! s-u-b-l-i-m--a-n-a-l ,
At least I’m where I sojourn to be!
We must be friends.
We must stay friends.
Even if we can’t ever-life, we must ever-trust.
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When deep passion dies within, the dreams that were there unto tied float away like a helium balloon lost from the hands of a child. And since the wind blows where it pleases, such dreams roam wild.
I am a would-be wild balloon-chaser. And my fate is sealed:
“You shall know the unlimits of grandeur but never beauty, until the warrior-poet in you dies.”
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I had forgotten how much of an empath I’m prone to become when I’m cast alone into a strange milieu. Unanchored, I begin to drift and soon find myself in a fog of unknowingness. Built structures that I encounter of whatever sort become an immediate baseline of deadliness—a straight-line of my own imminent mortal transience. If I fail in such unfamiliar environs to connect in a meaningfully empathic manner with ambient life force(s), these structures begin to cacoon/entomb me with a genuine guarantee of proximate mortal demise. For you see, a true empath connects with the lifeless and inorganic as readily as with the lifeful and organic. And in a dire of an imbalanced environ, the empath, too, is threatened by the internalization of all embracing precocities.
Pittsburgh is one hard city. Set forth to discover, open the gates of sensation, and turn to stone. Or is it iron? Not smiling is inescapably fatal, as the facial features of so many sidewalk zombies unconcealingly attest. Sequentially encountered, they seem mysteriously and mystically one with the cast steel of the many bridges that cascade over this and that unlazy river. As if, they too, once were gripped by the imminent intimacy of unfiltered empathy but were slammed mercilessly into the stolidness of ironicity (Iron City?). Peer into too many such visages and feel your own face begin to strain with rigor mortis. And the harder and more petrified your mug becomes, the quicker your eyes dart around looking for an out. The eyes, the eyes are the very last to become empathically hardened. The very last.
But it’s okay, it’s okay. A street junky that you pass begging for change is really working undercover for Humanity, Inc. And though you stone-cold initially ignore every aspect of his supplicating presence, his glancing observation (“Hey big guy—this is one hard city. Best to smile.”), to your slight, reverberates as a delayed, echo-chambered, last-vestige-of-compassion realization:
Wha? …??.... Finally: a meaningful connection with an ambient life force: rigor vivis! Hell yes! Damn yes! And you turn around, reach for two quarters, and wind your way back to the street junky and say: “Brother, I’m about to give you these two quarters because that’s the best damn advice I’ve heard all day.” And he looks at you and laughs joyously, then looks up and stares at heaven quite piercingly.
Truly amazing the salvation that two bits of metal can buy.
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I've been sent this week to work on the road. No, not a road crew, but I'd probably not mind sniffing hot tar all day (love that smell) !
Rather, I'm bopping about in Pittsburgh doing some PC networking upgrade kind of stuff and testing remote access. It's glum, but then most 'work' is (otherwise 'work' would probably be called 'fun').
What esle am I doing here? There's nothing to do.
Ah, at least I can blog that there's nothing to do!
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The Groupboard on this blog is defunct. It had become, overall, after an initial burst of marvelous creativity, largely (though not entirely) a cesspool of gibbersihness.
I thank the many of you who contributed generously, spontaneously, and evokingly from start to finish. As an adjunct to my blog, it served as an experiment and here's what I found and/or deduced:
1) It significantly increased the loading time of my page, discouraging some peeps with slow connections, from returning regularly.
2) It tended to siphon off interaction with the blog itself, becoming for some more of an attraction than whatever I had happened to post.
3) Occasionally, due to your astute contributions, the board actually accented and augmented my blog content. But such was rare rather than the rule.
4) It allowed some to brazenly and anonymously befoul my blog; while letting others to reach out most upliftingly with incredible artistic imagery.
5) But, most direly, I, myself, grew tired of closing it just to get back to my blog. For me, it had become a stale expectation. So, like a good assassin who responds to predictable patterned behavior with a dose of extreme prejudice, I shot it in the head.
The Groupboard is dead. Though many or your supra-blogged, extra-xanga expressions of genuine communal interaction shall remain always unforgettable to me.
Or course, if you know me by the blog, you realize that the sunset of one of my experiments typically signifies the sunrise of another.
Thou dawnest beautifully upon the horizon of the sky, O living Sunlight, kissing with energy all that is.
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How sinister the clover in this bed
that lays in wait for me.
Not to be laid upon but under
now my heart no longer thunders
in rhythmic harmonies.
How lurid is the bird
that sings strange funeral melodies
in yonder leaning tree.
With notes that float to be unheard
as dark accompaniment to my strange destiny.
How morbid, too, the buzzing just above
of this fuzzily bumbling bee.
Seeking to make honey I’ll never taste
now that I lay in waste
for all eternity.
Yet how absolutely perfect it all is.
How darkly beautiful all things be.
As the triumphant sacrament of life
endures the futile sacredness of death
to perpetuate the Great Mystery.
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I am streaming through the ravines of morpheus.
Pausing long enough to take a look here
...and there...
but not truly rest.
I have a mission, a reason for pushing onwards
towards the beyond even at the expense of duress.
Dreams not yet dreamt beckon me.
There is a hunger never yet felt that stirs my compassion…
I see the museums of tomorrow
filled with the artifacts of today.
Remnants of our lives are there.
There’s even an ornamental pot
filled with a hodgepodge mix of our cultural DNA
kept tepid on a neutron stove.
Don’t ask if you have a place
or if I have a place...
there. Don’t ask.
If you’re high, you’ll know.
They look back on us, you know.
They look back mostly with piercing eyes
trying to pry into our mysteries.
Gimlet eyes that radiationally hunger for our absorption.
That is the hunger I feel.
The hunger that wants to know
what it felt for us to be real.
For us to be .
Listen, you’ll hear them from afar and feel their gaze.
The future is finally becoming our voyeur.
Time itself is tripping.
And all our *realities* are subject to revamping
As they probe backwards through the haze.
Yet drawn am I not only
to the numinousity of this back-infusing future
and our current prospects for lunging thereto,
but also to our own ancestors capacity
for wondering about us —and us about them .
Can we suspend temporalities
and huddle in a nurturing timelessness?
They *pushed* us to here.
Can’t you feel the push?
We are where they left off
—the empowerment of their future, their dreams.
We are the culmination
of countless human Fizzies fuzzed into fruition.
A bubble here newly forming.
A bubble there now surfacing
to pop and rejoin the atmosphere.
Life is nothing if not a big bubbly.
Drink with zest lest the beverage goes flat.
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Earth is a soul factory. The turnover of souls through slaughter and consumption is amazing. Sentience of all forms is continually being scrubbed into oblivion. Death is an industry. And the corporations that are formed to promote it may and, in many cases, do have corporate lives far in excess not only of their victims, but even of the sponsors temporarily-embedded into the corporate body. Such corporations are the werewolves of modernity, feeding variously and vicariously upon humanity.
If there are reincarnation junkies in the cosmos, they're without a doubt targeting earth in their quest for repetitive roller coaster rides. The lines to get back on the rides are very, very short. And if the ride doesn't kill you, exiting through the turnstyle should do the trick.
If, upon some world somewhere -elsewhere- , life is 'truly sacred' or at least pervasively so, to them our modern carnivoristic culture would doubtlessly appear antithetically demonic.
Although the Native Americans were not vegetarians, and, of course, took their game fresh, they at least had a spiritual tradition of honoring and spiritually relating to the target of their hunts creature-to-creature and soul-to-soul. Hunting often was prayerful and dining was an act of thoughtful communion.
Soulless consumption through the mast wasting of souls is, on the other hand, the philosophy of all known concentration camps.
So, at least, relate genuinely to and reflectingly upon what you eat today. And beware of the wolves that were.
...and a discontinuity:
Chalicious, from yesterday...
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She has a chalice—
Or is it a phallus?—
Perfectly pendant
And swinging sweet cherry-its.
She raves of rapture—
Or am I captured?—
With the swing of her hips
So deep does she dip.
She sucks on my kiss—
What have I but this?—
As her body divine
Assimilates mine.
I’m awed with her treasure—
But what measure is pleasure?—
I live to serve her
And serve her to Love.
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I need to climb a tree. Has anyone climbed a good tree lately?
I think that it is really hard to fall out of a tree. Does anyone know anybody who has died due to falling out of a tree?
My suspicion is that our primate instincts and primate skills of reaching and grasping and climbing would kick in quite quickly were one to start to fall and that the fall would be broken successfully in a hugely large percentage of such cases. All because we don't climb trees that much anymore doesn't mean we've lost our keen instincts, does it?
I need to climb a tree. Has anyone climbed a good, short tree lately?
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Is Jayson Blair, just recently exposed for fraudulent reporting, plagiarism, and quote-invention as a New York Times reporter a singular anomaly, a solitary breach of the public’s trust? Or would you be surprised to learn that 50% of major media reporting harbors such ‘inaccuracies’?
Would you be shocked to learn that at least 2% and perhaps as much as 25% of certain genre of canonical masterpieces in the art museums of the world today are fakes? In fact, the greatest art forger of all time, a contemporary, is/was so great that new forgers are forging his forged works of the Masters!
Learn more about Trolls, Hoaxes, Culture Jamming, Poetic Terrorism, Media Hacks, Frauds, Impostors, Spoofs, Counterfeits, Fakes, Pranks, Scams, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds here !
Did you know that the philosophical underpinnings of the Matrix can be largely found in French postmodern sociologist Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation, where he argues that contemporary Western society is a culture of facades, replicas, counterfeit and imitation? (the Wachowskis--producers of the Matix and the Matrix Reloaded--encouraged Keanu Reeves to read this work.)
I would hope someday that the rantings of this blog could be so fucking inspirational! So much to do...so little time.
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It's referred to by some as "the stupid line," the line one crosses from taking a smart risk to taking a stupid risk. It's the difference between, say, learning to mountain climb with the proper gear or just setting out on your own. Or maybe choosing to leave your 10-year-old alone in a room with a lit fireplace, compared to leaving your one-year-old. The consequences of one choice are much different than the other.
—Agnes Bongers, "Risk Management," The Hamilton Spectator, May 6, 2003
And here I thought 'the stupid line' was walking up to a strange hot chick in a ritzy boutique and making a first acquaintance by by blurting out "You know, you look like you have a really hot pussy." Yep, I once upon a time, did exactly that. And the shocking thing was, a half hour later, she was accompanying me to my apartment. Stupid is as stupid does.
Truth is, though, I think we all cross 'the stupid line' just by being born into this world. Remaining in the state of unbirth poses no risks whatsoever. But to cross into the thresholds of perception by consuming this exotic hallucinogen called 'Life', ah, baby, you ought to be expecting one helluva motherfucking risky trip.
Driving drunk late at night down two lanes of the highway and directly over the broken middle lane lines because you think that they are arrows directing you to your bullseye home. Now those are stupid lines. Yep, I've done that too.
Still... Learn or die. Yet take no risk in dying, and you'll stay unborn forever and never learn. It's cozy over there on the other side of unbirth, isn't it, all-smug and pre-preternatural? Comfortably numb.
But here's the dark secret: The 'unborn' are always trying life on by slipping into the corpses of the dead. Yes, they are nature's true necromancers. A no-risk feel-what-a-body-feels-like shot into deadliness. Kind of like going to a 'used shoe' store and trying on all the shoes without any intent of buying any. Yum, smell those stinky feet!
Not me. I just bought a new pair of running shoes yesterday. Love the pungently smart smell of their vinyl and rubber. Reminds me of the first, naked Barbie doll I ever whiffed. Yow! Going to go running and tripping in the cemetery tomorrow. Over the bodies of the dead. And well beyond the imagination of the unborn.
Life, the final frontier.
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Leisure sickness, like paradise syndrome, chronic fatigue syndrome, seasonal affective disorder and sick building syndrome, is one of those modern conditions that sounds bogus, the pointless invention of some under-employed researcher, unless you happen to suffer from it, that is.
How do you know if you have been struck down with leisure sickness? Well, think back to the past few times you were ill. Did you have to take time off work? Or, after a prolonged period of good health, were you struck down by some mystery bug just as you were setting off on a long-awaited two-week vacation to some far-flung corner of the world? If it is the latter, chances are you, too, have leisure sickness.
—Sally Weale, "Do you often feel ill on holiday: but never when you're at work? If so, you could be a victim of 'leisure sickness',"
--The Guardian, November 26, 2002
How do you know if you have been struck down with blog sickness? Well, think back to the past few times you were ill. Did you have to take time off from reality? Or, after a prolonged period of good mental health, were you struck down by some mystery bug just as you were setting off on a long-awaited fantasy to some far-blogged corner of the cyberworld? If it is the latter, chances are you, too, have blog sickness.
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I could abscound at length into unchartered extents of prolific obscurity to relate quite equivocally and just, with the slightest curiousness, circumspectly, about fuzzily almost how I find myself iconoclastically-cast here-now into this existential miasma termed near space terra 3rd planet firma out. But why bother?
Three words will suffice:
Overworked.
Underpaid.
Unlaid.
Still, I'm slightly less overworked than I used to be when I had twice the energy.
And, thankfully, not underpaid any less (though I am overtaxed.)
And though unlaid, it's not like I've never ...
...Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
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Rare, uncensored and unembellished personal insight: an account of precisely what I remember streaming while running in just minutes preceding::
The spring flowers are fully in bloom; yet the girls, the women are nowhere thusly witnessed by me: didn’t have a single feminine touch today or even one kind spoken word of welcoming, beckoning, or reckoning; still, quite sincerely, thanks for the memories. I suck oxygen from the memories.
Just passed a girl jogging and decided to be me by greeting her with a “How are things looking tonight to you ?” nonresponse. she was deader than a door-navel.
The trees, the clouds, the sky, the moonlight and stars are all now mine. yet there’s no projection or infusion of shared human connectivity—even psychically. the world is clearly imperfect—and I am the perfection of that.
Kurt Vonnegut was found of “so it goes.” And so it went. My pure animality alone now brings me solace.
Once upon a time my feet had wings. though no longer posed for flight, I’m glad, at least, that not all the foot-feathers have fallen off.
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Rocks. I had a little rock in my right shoe the other day that was driving me crazy while running. I tried to keep it localized in the spare space at the tip of my toes, but it kept shifting around. “Don’t move!”, I said, “Stay still.” But the damn little bastard wouldn’t listen. Rocks are like that. They don’t listen, little fuckers. I had to stop running just to pull off my shoe and fling the thing. Oh, the trial of being me! But, rocks, yeah, well, they’re another thing…
How about that boulder that fell on that guy’s arm in the Canyonlands National Park, Utah? That boulder clearly was an awaiting assassin. And the climber would have died except he cut off his arm with a pocketknife (three blind mice, three blind, mice, see how they run, see how they run, they all ran after the farmer's wife, she cut off their tails with a carving knife, did you ever see such a sight in your life…). Actually, I think she must have stabbed them in the eyes and that’s why they were blind.
Then there’s this new pile of rocks that used to be called the Old Man of the Mountain in New Hampshire. Apparently, New Hampshire had thrived, but has now died, along with the collapsing demise of this landmarked, symbolic, monumental expression of an overhanging rock cliff that many once described as the Old Man.
*neanderthal* *pre-hominid*
We are Devo!
Well, old it was—nearly 200 million years. But now people are saying the fallen debris is "merely a pile of rocks” (duh—and what was it when it was *up there* except a ‘pile of rocks’ waiting to fall?).
So a pile of rocks collapses and what is the reaction of New Hampshire’s governor? “We shall reconstruct it—bar no expense.” Like tribal islanders, Newhampshirites dread the prospect of life without their larger-than-life mojo rock icon. And, in truth, the loss of millions of dollars in tourism to see the Old Man could threaten New Hampshire’s economy. So we now have the spectacle of a State mourning, and possibly itself dying, over the repositioning of a pile of rocks. Crock of the rock!
But most worrisome of all to me is the fact that there is now an asteroid in our vicinity with the name of ‘Misterrogers’. Yes, ‘Misterrogers’, formerly known as asteroid No. 26858, honors Fred Rogers, creator and host of PBS’s Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. Rogers died Feb. 27 at age 74.
You all know, of course, what this means? This Misterrogers asteroid will undoubtedly become the killer asteroid to slam into Earth and do us all in. Last Days, my friends, Last Days. And I’ve even heard that the collapsing Old Man in the Mountain, with his last dying breath, ordained it so. I can see the headlines that will never be now:
Mister Rogers Destroys The Earth
Yeah, I always knew nobody could be that nice without having the grimmest of dark sides.
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*sleep mode*
Have you ever seen a dream walking?
I hear a warrior scream “Freedom!”
But I am free.
And I aspire to make use of my bounty of liberty to dream still other dreams.
Dreams of the yet unborn. The pristinely-vibrating never yet abashed. Dreams of those who may some day view us as little more than tortured history.
Except for this mystery: I’ve been there before.
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Look at me...
I have a BlogTree.
Let me explain: If anything ever happens to Xanga *gulp* -- that is, the xangbilical cord is cut-- and we're thereby severed from one another, yet you decide to continue blogging on another hosted blog, well then, just look me up as 'notforprophet'. Because I'm probably already there! -
Where bloggers are 'criminals':
Last month the Iranian police detained Sina Motallebi, a prominent blogger, marking a significant and worrying shift in what had previously been a tolerant approach to the large number of Iranian blogs.
more here...
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Are we all "watched pots" ?
DUBLIN, Ireland -- Writer William Gibson will wind up his hugely popular weblog within a few weeks, out of fears that it might stifle his creative thinking about his next novel.
"I think it's in its last couple of weeks," he said. "I do know from doing it that it's not something I can do when I'm actually working. Somehow the ecology of writing novels wouldn't be able to exist if I'm in daily contact. The watched pot never boils," he added with a laugh.
...more here
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Am I dreaming or did I really hear that voice? What voice? Listen:
*abandon the blog*
Did you hear it? Or am I the only one?
But...why...
Why stop? Though I'm sometimes given to romantic excess, I see a modification of that inclination and not wholesale cessation of communications as my solution. Yeah, sometimes my heart leaps and I blurt. The blurts can sometimes even be beautiful, alluring, and seductive--and especially self-so. But they are still blurts. But like any properly sensate and self-regulating organism, I learn from other's feedback. I learn, too, from disciplined self-analysis. In that sense, I've a tendency to be Jungian in disposition. And admire Jung for sleeping with a pistol under his pillow as his provision for the end-of-experiment should he have ever found himself deranged by his own analysis. So ceasing communication, for me, would be tantamount to invoking a "metaphorical Jungian pistol". But I here see no need for that--yet! Better it is for me now to heed the advice of Ernest Hemingway: "The great thing is to last and get your work done, and see and hear and understand and write when there is something that you know and not before and not too damn much afterwards."
So let's not contrive an anomalous pause or force unending spew, but merely write when there's something that we know! Hence, this.
Earth sends a message:
Mind you, life is one short fuck.
Don't get stuck watching.
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