A Silly Insomnia Post
Can't sleep for some reason, at least not yet. I really need to stop this. It's frightening sometimes.
Well, in any case, I finally found the essay I was looking for online, the Philip K. Dick one that they mentioned at the end of "Waking Life." I am hoping that it will help put me to bed. I also happened upon a comic adaptation of a part of this essay, by Crumb. I think that I will leave it for tomorrow.
Tomorrow I want to wake up before noon (which is becoming less and less likely the longer I am up...). Then I can run errands, an activity that brings me, for some reason, an inapproapriate amount of pleasure (relatively, meaning that its inappraoriate in relation to the significance of the said activity), and maybe even buy that random Tom Waits CD I was wanting to buy. The remainder of the time, I can paint. I am very happy again when I paint, even if it turns out crappy, which most of my work, I think, usually does at first. I insist on believing that if only I work hard enough on something, it will be good enough, and I can be good enough, and then I can make it.
There is all this swirling that goes on. I feel doubtful. It is not a good thing to be awake this late, reading something by Philip K. Dick, and trying to form some coherent transmission of what I actually feel and am, or think I feel and am. The problem is that I am not coherent. I don't even know. I had it there, for a second, or maybe I did, but it slipped away. I really am quite involved in myself, and myself, being thus unknown, isn't much to be involved in. I am, in essence, involved with grains of sand in a desert, involved with pouring into the ocean.
I think I am going to bed now.
Well, in any case, I finally found the essay I was looking for online, the Philip K. Dick one that they mentioned at the end of "Waking Life." I am hoping that it will help put me to bed. I also happened upon a comic adaptation of a part of this essay, by Crumb. I think that I will leave it for tomorrow.
Tomorrow I want to wake up before noon (which is becoming less and less likely the longer I am up...). Then I can run errands, an activity that brings me, for some reason, an inapproapriate amount of pleasure (relatively, meaning that its inappraoriate in relation to the significance of the said activity), and maybe even buy that random Tom Waits CD I was wanting to buy. The remainder of the time, I can paint. I am very happy again when I paint, even if it turns out crappy, which most of my work, I think, usually does at first. I insist on believing that if only I work hard enough on something, it will be good enough, and I can be good enough, and then I can make it.
There is all this swirling that goes on. I feel doubtful. It is not a good thing to be awake this late, reading something by Philip K. Dick, and trying to form some coherent transmission of what I actually feel and am, or think I feel and am. The problem is that I am not coherent. I don't even know. I had it there, for a second, or maybe I did, but it slipped away. I really am quite involved in myself, and myself, being thus unknown, isn't much to be involved in. I am, in essence, involved with grains of sand in a desert, involved with pouring into the ocean.
I think I am going to bed now.