Howard Hughes and the Restless Life
Sunny morning, but the afternoon grew overcast. The high was 85F.
A weird fucking night. I was so upset over the events of yesterday, I didn't think I would be able to sleep, and then I passed out without taking any of my meds (that terrible handful). I woke at 3 a.m., panicked, then realized I was panicked because I forgot the pills. So I took them. And couldn't get back to sleep. I got up at 4 a.m. and ate some grits and a piece of cheese and fruit cup...and wound up lying down again and sleeping untl after 7 a.m. I woke in the drug-induced fog I usually sleep off. NO work got done. I did manage to proof some of Mike's paper late this afternoon, but reading about mosasaurs is too enjoyable for me to count it as work, especially when I have not gotten my writing done. Pay the bills, make the beans, then I get to do paleontology.
And just the dread I woke with, the sorrow of the absurdity of yesterday.
Though I knew it was risky, saying anything at all about anything at all, I did post this on FB today:
It is one thing to hate someone's work. That means you do not read more of it. This is every reader's right. You might tell your friends your reaction. But it is another to try and ban or censor it, even to attempt to destroy the author's public image and ability to make a living and care for their family. And we see it now from the Left and the Right. It is evil. It is fascism. To quote Ray Bradbury, "There is more than one way to burn a book."
Just to threaten, in any way, such actions is appalling.
~ and (this second one is fun) ~
My favoite word I learned today: Regurgitaliths, the fossilized remains of stomach contents that have been regurgitated by an animal.
That stuff I was saying day before yesterday about utilitrainism, it set me thinking about my feelings about revolutions. I am almost alwys terrified at the thought of revolution, even if, in theory, it might improve my situation. In part, this arises from a decent enough knowledge of revolutions to know that, especially those of the last three hundred years or so, pretty much always end in atrocities that make the old atrocities pale in comparison. But, also, I do not want a new world. It is that simple. I will sacrifice a lot for stability. For tradition. You can feel free to make of that what you will. I know that the idea of a revolution is that things are supposed to get better, but it pretty much never works that way - humans being what humans are - and, in the bargain, you lose what you had, which was at least familiar. This absolutely does not rule out desirable, but slow and incremental, improvement.
And sure, what I want of the world, it's not what you want of the world, and all this shit is subjective. Except the part about revolutions almost always going badly for everyone.
On that note, one of my favorite bits of poetry, ever:
"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)" ~ Walt Whitman
I imagine this on my tombstone.
Please visit the splendiferous Dreaming Squid Sundries shop. Books. Tie dye. Awesome possum, man.
Still pondering, but the Substack ain't dead.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast (still here)
2:53 p.m. (day before yesterday)
A weird fucking night. I was so upset over the events of yesterday, I didn't think I would be able to sleep, and then I passed out without taking any of my meds (that terrible handful). I woke at 3 a.m., panicked, then realized I was panicked because I forgot the pills. So I took them. And couldn't get back to sleep. I got up at 4 a.m. and ate some grits and a piece of cheese and fruit cup...and wound up lying down again and sleeping untl after 7 a.m. I woke in the drug-induced fog I usually sleep off. NO work got done. I did manage to proof some of Mike's paper late this afternoon, but reading about mosasaurs is too enjoyable for me to count it as work, especially when I have not gotten my writing done. Pay the bills, make the beans, then I get to do paleontology.
And just the dread I woke with, the sorrow of the absurdity of yesterday.
Though I knew it was risky, saying anything at all about anything at all, I did post this on FB today:
It is one thing to hate someone's work. That means you do not read more of it. This is every reader's right. You might tell your friends your reaction. But it is another to try and ban or censor it, even to attempt to destroy the author's public image and ability to make a living and care for their family. And we see it now from the Left and the Right. It is evil. It is fascism. To quote Ray Bradbury, "There is more than one way to burn a book."
Just to threaten, in any way, such actions is appalling.
~ and (this second one is fun) ~
My favoite word I learned today: Regurgitaliths, the fossilized remains of stomach contents that have been regurgitated by an animal.
That stuff I was saying day before yesterday about utilitrainism, it set me thinking about my feelings about revolutions. I am almost alwys terrified at the thought of revolution, even if, in theory, it might improve my situation. In part, this arises from a decent enough knowledge of revolutions to know that, especially those of the last three hundred years or so, pretty much always end in atrocities that make the old atrocities pale in comparison. But, also, I do not want a new world. It is that simple. I will sacrifice a lot for stability. For tradition. You can feel free to make of that what you will. I know that the idea of a revolution is that things are supposed to get better, but it pretty much never works that way - humans being what humans are - and, in the bargain, you lose what you had, which was at least familiar. This absolutely does not rule out desirable, but slow and incremental, improvement.
And sure, what I want of the world, it's not what you want of the world, and all this shit is subjective. Except the part about revolutions almost always going badly for everyone.
On that note, one of my favorite bits of poetry, ever:
"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)" ~ Walt Whitman
I imagine this on my tombstone.
Please visit the splendiferous Dreaming Squid Sundries shop. Books. Tie dye. Awesome possum, man.
Still pondering, but the Substack ain't dead.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast (still here)
2:53 p.m. (day before yesterday)