One eye, one arm, one ball
Usually I narrate my journal entry mentally, and then I kill it softly. Recollection is not fun--I do not want to recollect. I just want to write. But writing gets done always when my mind is clear, and my mind is never clear if I am plowing it through a thick muddy recording medium. Always I have wished for a true recording device, not a canvas but a vacuum, a device that records my thoughts, that I do not have to mold to the medium! I am consigned to, indeed I enjoy, forming the words in my head--the device need not form the words for me--but please, do not make me say, write, or type them. Just follow me while I ponder.
But such a device would raise the bar. But I embrace that, as a rule. I will compete on merit, not on technology, but please, build the device (I am busy).
So there were many stanzas and blocks that were lost to reluctance. Here in journal, we caught a few of the stragglers, but I wonder how did those fine specimens taste, whose asses we saw at the very front of the herd?
And if the servers die, then these words are just as worthless to me. Why would you write? Well, why do you do anything, really? Production is just that subtle thing that many of us secretly love because we remember years of apathy with the fondness and terror that a recovering user remembers cocaine...
So I write to produce. I turned on television this evening, to feel that victory pleasure, like juicy oranges after a soccer game with the sharp dry pain in lungs. What movie is that? Well, it looks mainstream in a bad way. William Bligh kept a log even while hostile natives babbled in his ear. Why? He brought the log on the dinky little boat, across three-thousand nautical miles, cracked red skin, and near-starvation. And Viscount Horatio Nelson kept a log. And Caesar wrote The Gallic Wars.
So I will keep a log.
But such a device would raise the bar. But I embrace that, as a rule. I will compete on merit, not on technology, but please, build the device (I am busy).
So there were many stanzas and blocks that were lost to reluctance. Here in journal, we caught a few of the stragglers, but I wonder how did those fine specimens taste, whose asses we saw at the very front of the herd?
And if the servers die, then these words are just as worthless to me. Why would you write? Well, why do you do anything, really? Production is just that subtle thing that many of us secretly love because we remember years of apathy with the fondness and terror that a recovering user remembers cocaine...
So I write to produce. I turned on television this evening, to feel that victory pleasure, like juicy oranges after a soccer game with the sharp dry pain in lungs. What movie is that? Well, it looks mainstream in a bad way. William Bligh kept a log even while hostile natives babbled in his ear. Why? He brought the log on the dinky little boat, across three-thousand nautical miles, cracked red skin, and near-starvation. And Viscount Horatio Nelson kept a log. And Caesar wrote The Gallic Wars.
So I will keep a log.