Livejournal Alive!
So perhaps, despite the blog, Facebook, Twitter Feed, and on and on, I ought to keep this long-catatonic sucker alive. I've been having some rare, expansive, dreams lately; they have given me a novel entire, if I can keep up with the narrative. I'm a little in love with one of my characters, the blond twink poet, clad in ultralinen bandages from the clavicles down. They flow, and flitter in the breeze. He's in love with the main character, who died before the narrative starts; there's a polyamorous relationship going in seven different directions against a backdrop of corrupt government and lost gods.
I've forgotten how to give a more comprehensive summation of what's going on with me; if I do, it's likely on my blog, which mostly serves my silly little nascent writing career. I'm actually making money out of words that come out of my head, even if they're about silverware or clothes. Actually, with no style-guide, my writing is apparently too formal, and I'm prohibited from writing about silverware or clothes. The things that are left to me to write are not worth my time, or will infect my Aeschylus (my Computer) with all of the diseases.
a shout out, for my beleaugeured ex-brother-in-law, who I am thinking of just now. He's disposessed, marginallized, and all alone in the world. I have too much wine in my blood just now, and despair, despair, despair. I managed to not throw my corpse in front of two separate trains today, and I count that as a triumph. My room-mate told me later that she thought that she'd have to grab the back of my coat; In the end, I couldn't do that to my mum, my ex-husband.
I've forgotten how to give a more comprehensive summation of what's going on with me; if I do, it's likely on my blog, which mostly serves my silly little nascent writing career. I'm actually making money out of words that come out of my head, even if they're about silverware or clothes. Actually, with no style-guide, my writing is apparently too formal, and I'm prohibited from writing about silverware or clothes. The things that are left to me to write are not worth my time, or will infect my Aeschylus (my Computer) with all of the diseases.
a shout out, for my beleaugeured ex-brother-in-law, who I am thinking of just now. He's disposessed, marginallized, and all alone in the world. I have too much wine in my blood just now, and despair, despair, despair. I managed to not throw my corpse in front of two separate trains today, and I count that as a triumph. My room-mate told me later that she thought that she'd have to grab the back of my coat; In the end, I couldn't do that to my mum, my ex-husband.