(no subject)
Hokay, So.
My immune system again proves hard as iron, crushing the bird flu in a mere three days.
However, work remains unaccomplished. Unrealized. Ah, fuck.
Thomas Wall and Caitlin Holt have, I'm sure, been eagerly awaiting my comments on their stories. Actually, they'll probably ignore everything and keep on writing what they've been writing. I hope not though. And Dan, Daniel Kenner, for Christ's sake, if you are listening, somewhere out there, take a class with Dan Gutstein!! Anything I tell you about your story is bullshit compared to how he can tweak it.
Uh...OK. Livejournaling is new to me but I kind of like it. I just ignore the fact that a few people I know will read all of this when I'm writing it. I'm not sure how long I'll keep it up. Whenever I've started one of these in the past it was abandoned soon thereafter. I guess I lose interest eventually, or get embarassed, or stop seeing the point.
God, I just opened my astronomy notebook and saw all the horseshit I've written in it--over-elaborate diagrams of elliptical motion. e = (f1-f2)/2a. Sure, I'll remember that. AS IF.
Why, I wonder, is the journal/diary now a public thing? I mean, many people have kept journals, but no one gets to read them until AFTER THEY DIE. Do people just want to be famous faster? Or feel that way? Hell, I sure do.
Here's a thing:
FANCY: I'm a tavern-crashing New England whaler, waving my chops at the barroom brawls, screaming bloody at the seats of whiggery the whole world round, sneer on one side and swoon on the other, yelping on the cold cobblestones, drinking the dry life having lived so long in liquid. I point hilariously: "LOOKEE!" My shoulders hunch and burn from the throwing and pulling I do, I do in my sleep. I've a small, hard gut. I both hate and love citrus. I've read my Bible, but my hymns brutalize. And lo, here ramble my mates, Harvey and Pitt, Sam and Fox--we will slurp it up, jam things around, paint the town in our fluids before we hop to it again. Yes, a bonfire sounds grand. I'll blow into my fiddle before I smash it--I can't take it with me. The jealous, in attempts at depersonalized revenge, blanket me in guilt; it burns away in my swill.
My immune system again proves hard as iron, crushing the bird flu in a mere three days.
However, work remains unaccomplished. Unrealized. Ah, fuck.
Thomas Wall and Caitlin Holt have, I'm sure, been eagerly awaiting my comments on their stories. Actually, they'll probably ignore everything and keep on writing what they've been writing. I hope not though. And Dan, Daniel Kenner, for Christ's sake, if you are listening, somewhere out there, take a class with Dan Gutstein!! Anything I tell you about your story is bullshit compared to how he can tweak it.
Uh...OK. Livejournaling is new to me but I kind of like it. I just ignore the fact that a few people I know will read all of this when I'm writing it. I'm not sure how long I'll keep it up. Whenever I've started one of these in the past it was abandoned soon thereafter. I guess I lose interest eventually, or get embarassed, or stop seeing the point.
God, I just opened my astronomy notebook and saw all the horseshit I've written in it--over-elaborate diagrams of elliptical motion. e = (f1-f2)/2a. Sure, I'll remember that. AS IF.
Why, I wonder, is the journal/diary now a public thing? I mean, many people have kept journals, but no one gets to read them until AFTER THEY DIE. Do people just want to be famous faster? Or feel that way? Hell, I sure do.
Here's a thing:
FANCY: I'm a tavern-crashing New England whaler, waving my chops at the barroom brawls, screaming bloody at the seats of whiggery the whole world round, sneer on one side and swoon on the other, yelping on the cold cobblestones, drinking the dry life having lived so long in liquid. I point hilariously: "LOOKEE!" My shoulders hunch and burn from the throwing and pulling I do, I do in my sleep. I've a small, hard gut. I both hate and love citrus. I've read my Bible, but my hymns brutalize. And lo, here ramble my mates, Harvey and Pitt, Sam and Fox--we will slurp it up, jam things around, paint the town in our fluids before we hop to it again. Yes, a bonfire sounds grand. I'll blow into my fiddle before I smash it--I can't take it with me. The jealous, in attempts at depersonalized revenge, blanket me in guilt; it burns away in my swill.