(no subject)
Stir fry cooks according to random distribution. Axiomatic there. I turn the food chunks with something that approximates rhythm, but these food chunks are colliding crazily. My meager pattern can't contend with such roiling wok chaos.
If you follow, there's a bell curve of doneness inside my bowl. Most of the food's crisp and juicy, but I had a choice to make -- cook for too little time, or too long. To move the curve up or down, that is. I stand by my choice, but a fraction of my broccolis were entirely too crunchy. (I sit, I pick statistical outliers from my teeth.) There is a grand metaphor in that. I glimpsed it. But then it was confusing to write down, so I started thinking about something else.
I'm not as passionate about Sabotage (the Sabbath album) as was I once. I haven't listened to it, I think, since I stopped smoking weed. Five years later, this album is disorienting, patchy, and self-consciously experimental. A fine argument for weed.
(Hole In The Sky is still a bitchin song. My cortex slams to Tony Iommi's thunder.)
I have to write a rent check and get it into the little slot. I have to make a pot of tea so I can use it to edit eight workshop poems for me. I have to do laundry, but I'm not going to.
Something's whispering at me that a diary's a place where you write about your day.
Day sucked. B on my novel-study midterm. Regardless, I continue to hold that it was too easy. Counselor (class-advice counselor, not shrink) off smoking weed rather than meeting me at the predetermined meeting time. Abruptly ended, darty-eyed conversations under a miserable grey sky. Walked out of Moral Philosophy due to bland, droning professor explaining the same thought-experiment for the third class in a row.
All the people I know are fucking insane.
Nothing notable.
If you follow, there's a bell curve of doneness inside my bowl. Most of the food's crisp and juicy, but I had a choice to make -- cook for too little time, or too long. To move the curve up or down, that is. I stand by my choice, but a fraction of my broccolis were entirely too crunchy. (I sit, I pick statistical outliers from my teeth.) There is a grand metaphor in that. I glimpsed it. But then it was confusing to write down, so I started thinking about something else.
I'm not as passionate about Sabotage (the Sabbath album) as was I once. I haven't listened to it, I think, since I stopped smoking weed. Five years later, this album is disorienting, patchy, and self-consciously experimental. A fine argument for weed.
(Hole In The Sky is still a bitchin song. My cortex slams to Tony Iommi's thunder.)
I have to write a rent check and get it into the little slot. I have to make a pot of tea so I can use it to edit eight workshop poems for me. I have to do laundry, but I'm not going to.
Something's whispering at me that a diary's a place where you write about your day.
Day sucked. B on my novel-study midterm. Regardless, I continue to hold that it was too easy. Counselor (class-advice counselor, not shrink) off smoking weed rather than meeting me at the predetermined meeting time. Abruptly ended, darty-eyed conversations under a miserable grey sky. Walked out of Moral Philosophy due to bland, droning professor explaining the same thought-experiment for the third class in a row.
All the people I know are fucking insane.
Nothing notable.