ze rak milim (it's just words)
I'm reading this book, and it really got me thinking. About the little things in life. The big ones too. About writing. Words overall. It made me feel like writing. In fragments, specifically. I filled up a notecard with page numbers and the first few words from sentences that just stuck with me.
"That's the problem with being alive," she says, staring at the floor. "You've got to keep thinking of what to do."
or
"Either everything meant something or nothing did, except that was just one of those things that sounded more profound than it was."
and
"He'd read books, passed exams, had sex with half a dozen girls, had bizarre dreams and minor religious moments courtesy of clear nights or autumn dusks- but never with a feeling of urgency or actuality, a consciousness of really being in the world, himself, alive, unique. His life might have been all bizarre dreams. Nor had he particularly minded. He'd blown around, more or less a person, more or less continuous. He'd had a terrible tendency to assume other people's accents, tics or traits..."
The book is called "Death of an Ordinary Man" by Glenn Duncan, in case you were wondering.
I had an urge to write a novel (and i just might). Because of something that happened to me. something so ordinary and wonderful that I just have to write about it. I woke up at 6:54 (maybe not exactly) about 7 hours after I'd gone to bed. I stirred a little, and started thinking. Of Gill, it so happens. I fell asleep and dreamt of her. Then I woke up at 8ish. I thought of...I don't know, really. I can't recall, truth be told. But I dreamt again. Woke up. Dreamt. Ninjas.
The last one came between 10 30 and 11, when i told myself "just another 10 mins of sleep." then, "fuck it. half hour. i'm a free man." I dreamt I was on a farm in Henderson (my dream self knew it wasn't Henderson, Nevada. So I asked, Texas? No, someone said, Canada.) And sure enough there was Zoe. It was a silly, odd dream. But one of those that make you want to stay in bed another half hour.
So, the idea for the novel is this: a guy in bed. All the dreams and thoughts he has. That way, I can digress. It's all just an ordinary guy's thoughts. I could be fickle, too. Funny one dream, deep and over-pensive the next. And I wouldn't have to finish things. Dreams don't end. They don't begin either. It's all just the middle.
"That's the problem with being alive," she says, staring at the floor. "You've got to keep thinking of what to do."
or
"Either everything meant something or nothing did, except that was just one of those things that sounded more profound than it was."
and
"He'd read books, passed exams, had sex with half a dozen girls, had bizarre dreams and minor religious moments courtesy of clear nights or autumn dusks- but never with a feeling of urgency or actuality, a consciousness of really being in the world, himself, alive, unique. His life might have been all bizarre dreams. Nor had he particularly minded. He'd blown around, more or less a person, more or less continuous. He'd had a terrible tendency to assume other people's accents, tics or traits..."
The book is called "Death of an Ordinary Man" by Glenn Duncan, in case you were wondering.
I had an urge to write a novel (and i just might). Because of something that happened to me. something so ordinary and wonderful that I just have to write about it. I woke up at 6:54 (maybe not exactly) about 7 hours after I'd gone to bed. I stirred a little, and started thinking. Of Gill, it so happens. I fell asleep and dreamt of her. Then I woke up at 8ish. I thought of...I don't know, really. I can't recall, truth be told. But I dreamt again. Woke up. Dreamt. Ninjas.
The last one came between 10 30 and 11, when i told myself "just another 10 mins of sleep." then, "fuck it. half hour. i'm a free man." I dreamt I was on a farm in Henderson (my dream self knew it wasn't Henderson, Nevada. So I asked, Texas? No, someone said, Canada.) And sure enough there was Zoe. It was a silly, odd dream. But one of those that make you want to stay in bed another half hour.
So, the idea for the novel is this: a guy in bed. All the dreams and thoughts he has. That way, I can digress. It's all just an ordinary guy's thoughts. I could be fickle, too. Funny one dream, deep and over-pensive the next. And I wouldn't have to finish things. Dreams don't end. They don't begin either. It's all just the middle.