boligrafo

And as for...those souls that have not lost their content, their context even--haven't been made frivolous yet....

Finally. It is the frivolity, the disaster of not being able to say serious things because once uttered, and shared on that feed (the front page of status update news)...

it all...seems...light, flighty. inconsequential. and that is everything now or so--they, I--will have you believe--in the power of punctuation, of close readings focusing on style. It is far beyond driven, balls out aesthetic fascism!

you weren't expecting that, oh no, no. Only you feel now that you were suspicious

(I've contributed my share of dearthiness and headache reprisals there),

Watch me advertise this. When I finally delete my Facebook I will have made up a notional space like Borges' "library (which others call the Universe)," for that is where all this is going. That story--the Library of Babel--es increible. I'm reading it everyday in Spanish a few pages at a time, mostly in the bathroom. But today I brought it down to my study, where I am reminded: this God business has to go, and I must tell of the utopia ready for poetry, if we can be atheist and anti-theory enough to tell of un-ideological matters of style until they billow out into all sorts of political and psychological issues yet still with style...still with form mattering most...

Desultory! Scattered!

When I declare the deletion of my Facebook, (after saving the words I've put there) the earth will shake. God will declare something (too) for good measure: god. He'll say, I'm just another text, yet nothing's outside me because I also AM the text. The way.

And as for the critical light!

!!!!!!! The beast held 7 swords and was known by 3 names only. Literature, language, and theory.

completely pointless

No there's no excuse you must go on except one might say you didn't...need to back then, but now that Slayer has always had poor vocals live, it seems to matter enough to mention it,

I have, after all, done that. And I could accept your...response no later than next time I'm forcing my self to write.

the dead have taken my soul!

Hahaha, there are people out there afraid--of this! Why are they all on my list?

It's sickening. Although one posted something brilliant about getting new 'church' shoes.

However seriously, the god stuff now...seriously. Sadly I could never say it like Carlin, I'd go too much into philosophy! But thank god thank god for George Carlin I'm glad I could walk down a block to the theater after work to attend a show (he was preparing another HBO special and was quite old--but I sat in the balcony & could barely tell). One of the most edifying but rather less funny episodes involving comedy under isolation--

I tend to watch Youtube comedy clips late at night, and before that it was that old 11-12:30sh show on A&E...

The host wore a pince-nez! Annoying, he kept the lens tight over one eye for the first few minutes only.

Ah! Ha! An Evening at the Improv!!!I posted this hours ago, and upon editing it....the name struck me.

bastard sons promiscuousdaughters

Except now the noise-canceling headphones are not as cheap as they were last week; I'm getting them through Marshall's.

Cheap-er.

Oh this is stupid. Force it! you have to write. fine, it's okay to curse, you pay good money to curse.

allow it all, all! this is a terrible performance of south of heaven! oh god, why did I...sing up there---

por defecto

In fact I do not want to write at all; the picture of the set in the yard past the woods by the swings...

I want to drum. Why wouldn't the headphones be on back order until February? I'm ordering these career-jinxing headphones right now.

Lleva un profundo sentimiento de culpa.

This is what I carried with me from that church, a manual on how to carry guilt, apply it like a balm upon one's work--have you heard this before? It becomes the distance between the artist and his work, or rather its byproduct. The danger is quitting all artistry to assuage the guilt by writing by hand a goddamn journal entry. One--I--cannot say the same for what appears online. As if it isn't me?

No, we've already gone through this.

It made little difference then whether it made any sense. Only now I'm made wretched for not writing, for not going on.

Of which Bible verse does that remind you? At any rate I lie.

That I haven't seen any of these Faces in years means I'll have help writing the persona. It had better not be me.

This is the tragedy:

It could be a mirage, a starving artist--twirling sticks!--since it's too late to drum. What's an artist doing being a drummer--

The tragedy...is that you never heard of this before. Course, go there now and it is a sad and incomplete tale, a story almost: until I am sick of the woods and old houses and realize that this thing wants continuity. Narrative. I refuse!

All the while, ever so distantly, wishing to live in the dark for two days maybe three, recovering from laser surgery (perhaps pathogenic ocular dissonance). I type and drum perhaps better when I cannot see. In the dark, redirected to heaven, I damn well create.

The aesthetic notional space is old news; for now, making it--this is far removed from what I've learned and it's a good thing, too. Else what subject could I have?

At least now I've got all the critical stuff surrounding and leading up to Hypertext, let's have it capitalized. It's got my audio tracks waiting, in the ether--trust...me. There will be dozens within the year, and each will be supremely worth listening to.

Prolific--you know.

bark at that moon.

I'm proud: I know I just did something, I ordered a bunch of books. It feels nice.

They'll arrive in the mail and let me know that a week or two ago, I did something.

That too will feel nice.

I'm sorry this place is shrinking, cramming my head into its drawers. It can't be helped. Everyone's sorry they asked. In fact I'll give it back to them; I can force it out of me, certainly I can re-gift it. Everything is set up except the inevitable problem of the headphones, and sitting here still makes me want to...weep. In the metaphysical sense: a good enough hiding spot. Like a cubby under the stairs in the psyche.

How much contempt can there be in a body, so fully ready to take on the world when it's not looking, let's say it's indisposed...to? I've been crying wolf on Facebook for a month, "sharing" this blog--but when the real thing's ready, oh...everyone who knows me will be too weary to go there. They checked this blog once and guffawed; and what, he's adding drums to the same old mess?

So much more than can be discussed. Pretend, then, that you're honest. Get crazy confessional with it. Recall what Sontag said of a geologist's autobiography, almost sickening with the lack of self-respect, the total admissions to failures mostly in the bedroom. I confess to constantly thinking about my projects, whatever they happen to be. I'll go so far as to say that hardly anything ever occupies me so...persistently.

For a reminder of how ugly this can be, watch the sickening video for that embarrassing song, Bark at the Moon. Nothing surpasses this and gets famous for it.

I might be calculating, careful to the point of geometric.

of course. right here.

You made me listen to the bongo-playing fool with whom Terri was speaking, didn't you? You can say, you can even stand up when you say it, that I was the hegemon from the start. That nothing needs to justify me. I've been in your heads for far too long, you think by now I've always been in your heart. It's all control. You'd die to be thus controlled. Rather takes off the responsibility, but this is not the point.

What I called you over here for was: The pain residing at the center, what is that precisely, but a shirt that is only loud if you want to take a look at it: you see others have their fears, and you are caught looking at these spindly -- what are they called again? Investments? Because you couldn't honor them they looked old and worn out, I think that by now you have recognized that there is there is...

there is no one watching after all--the world that all of us have made is already invested in, so if you wanted to tell someone that it's okay to trust one another because we're all carefully thinking about what the other's said...

Go ahead...

Otherwise we suggest you wantonize down here. The seating is best, and only people who know about this fixation of yours with prose...will understand, at best why you speak of aesthetics but more typically---more to be expected by these waifs---that you're always at least slightly upset.

Take on the power struggle. An entire generation hearing about the lack of agency, or the renunciation of silly old views about ideal selfhood, the very stuff that makes such an agency--a warrant--interesting, what gives life to the whole stupid project of living, precisely the illusions we let expand, consume us even, leaving plenty of room---if this is your wont---for mucking about in ideas. And there will be many ideas to really tear it up in. What, Susan, is so bad about mucking about in it? In our town that's muddin, and rare are those whose enthusiasm for cars--for jeeps!--justify the enterprise for their embracing of the absurdity...

"hands off, let's go!"

LitCrit: uncanny radcliffe

The ingredients for an uncanny reading are here, and are announced at the end with the recurrence of a note gradually giving way to a requiem, which prompts the reversal of the Marchesa's passions. Directly after that follows the assertion of the intellectual powers through the Confessor's disdain that this woman should allow music to vitiate her greed for prestige: she wishes now to be free of the plot to kill her intransigent future daughter in law. What is most uncanny is the ghost of sophistry, however: Schedoni's hawk-eyed, cunning knowledge of his interloper's secret fears and desires yet also the softening persuasion of a man of his order, a Confessor.

One must trust his wit and allow the beguiling to be out in the open; such is the Marchesa's predicament. The uncanny character here has glided in and out of the narrative, possibly as the monkishly cloaked "unknown adviser" to Vivaldi's inquisitions into the ruins, where he might chance upon Ellena, as well as the consiglieri who plots with his mother against his beloved.

Considering that the true danger seems at this point to be Schedoni's intellect, I am deferred from a more definitive answer concerning what is uncanny in The Italian. Instead as I read I am followed by Byron's epic "Don Juan," which was inspired, we are told in the introduction, by Radcliffe's romance. There are more than a few similarities, chiefly the curious role of intellect versus the passions (as both lovers philosophize or at least allude in their musings, ambivalent to the oncoming affair, to Plato and the implications of the stars).

Byron's characters, at least in the first canto, also engage in the old struggle between sophistry and poetry, gossip and legitimate commentary (witness Donna's book of the Don's flaws and failures which she cites to friends and family)--items which are not uncanny per se but inflect my reading quite so. The ghost of influences past, perhaps: I might allude to the fact that in The Italian, this very issue of philosophy and poetry is presently buried in voluminous prose. For now I see it arising in the form of musical motifs, serenades by Vivaldi in the ruins near Ellena's modest dwelling, where she too sings, distractedly, about the dashing young man whose love is socially above her and therefore ungraspable.

(But here again I run into another problem: the composer Vivaldi died in 1741 and Radcliffe's Vincentio di Vivaldi goes about his denouement in 1758, while the characters, dropped after the first chapter, who are reading this second-layer narrative pick it up in 1764. No one living in Radcliffe's Italy would not have heard of the Vivaldi of Four Seasons fame, nor is her Vivaldi free from the professional musical world, as his mother administrates an orchestra which performs, early in the narrative, the work of a nameless though famous composer. Another ghost uncovered; this is as uncanny as this seminal Gothic romance has been thus far for me.).....

oh and please

Another Oreo dropped into the milk and when I'd drunk down the milk (gulped) after dipping the one still in hand (for it deserves its chance) this black disk fell down at me, spun--several times. ......
dissolved padding for the icing. This was long after the party. In my study. When it landed I was reminded of slapstick, and vowed never to mention this again. I've since told it thrice, of course.

Again, now.

again not sure, but here.

In advance you said, or at least you thought, that I'd taken up all the room with my canny head. Two in a pod, one continuously angry, always proud. Dumb subjectivity full of her father's angst. 'My favorite computer' is probably what you said once, in telling the past in words sprouting out.

No one was embarrassed when another lit up a fit, ownership. Birthday, fifth.

No one regrets having not eaten most of what I prepared--distracted? Not enough cheese, all of it melted into the very noodle, gone--overcooked?

Not quite sure. Surely nothing seemed it; I believe taste had run out, into the pan. It was a nonstick but the hot dogs were fine. Beside them, rather catty-corner, are three boxes of mac n cheese. However, Valvita. And cooked all together it's not like a stew; it's not at all like itself, it's a congealed angry mob. You know chemicals like to fight, if not each other then well fine, in you.

What has no taste must be polluted, or so Ad Busters would have us believe. See the terror in the flashy ideology, the ads disbursed for free: the editors here, theorists or inspired thereby, want to slice into corporate identity, bring on the empty center.

A very small family of ideas that must be repeated for the things they do to the shape of my prose: billowing out, yes, but contained by a catalog.

...not sure what just happened

Results matter.

It's overrotten.

Rather like our recent discussions on faith, what it does when left out.

That is, the discussion itself. I found myself supporting science like never before. I wanted lists; sick of reading Freud's Uncanny, indeed for the third time. I've tamed that particular notion; not to say I've effected it. Nor did Freud. I will do it someday perhaps--perform it--bring it out--but for now I must recognized that things that appear strange and creep us out because they are too familiar is one thing, and another might be interpreting the recurring banality and poeticizing it; finally we arrive somewhere--because we've been flung--near the banality of evil. If they each seem uncanny to me now it's because I've used them somehow, incorporated them. As in the notion has rather a stale taste; the rest is literary criticism, as he and every honest critic and professor has acknowledged. It's because it's an aesthetic phenomena, as he says in his first line: his science is with good conscience drawn from experience and literature; though it's empiricism, interactions among subjectivities, roles being played.

Regardless of the comments qualifying all this, and even if we know Freud's usual or later method...

I want him to stop talking and tell me what's happening. I'm sick of reading this essay: it has introduced two Lit courses and appeared early in Literary Criticism. English majors know that rereading is at the heart of the enterprise; no matter that I nearly had Frankenstein in three classes as well, but the prof herself was weary of teaching it--of course this is the prof now teaching the Uncanny again. No matter, it's just an essay. Scarcely a burden for the seasoned critical reader. But there is less work to be done in the domain of pulling out the latent and curiously schemetized--as in, supposedly before the critic gets a hold of it, this unconscious material is practically in three parts already.

So it goes, so we have been bred to expect; I cannot hide this anymore--I hold traditional theory in contempt, I am sick of its motifs--I see them everywhere in every class (except Paul Bruss's no doubt). Perhaps it's how they're presented to me. I suspect of course it is they themselves which deserve not mere repudiation but--parody. Which in theory is quite nice to the original source, there is a respect at the bottom of the meanest parodies, we all know. But I cannot jump from that and say I do not treat it as the original source, I see no center, nothing transcendental; no immanent justification or even first tenet--this is all so plainly abolished as to make me truly dizzy when I descend to my own immortal soul--I have retained the imagination to make the emptiness quite liveable. Of course I'm just as alienated as any intellectual--let's say for the moment that I'm that. But it's not getting any better. The Lit program is simply pestering me with old ideas that always seem at first new, while the series of syllabi undercut this. Academia's outside ties--stubborn purse strings--keep each class guided by the pressures to write theoretically...as peculiarly 'knowing' authorities.

It usually appears as putting the literary text on trial; we've heard this phrase since Sontag at least. Other instances (like on Emu's sixth floor English) though constrained by limited outside expectations, only appear to the student (if that student's me) as...a sentence that simply fell off.

actually the privilege

Now this actually went to steal time. She must have buried it. You'll tell her from no other expression, she looks the same and speaks typically in a slightly subliminal sort of way. Her tone is worth looking around for, but to know actually you'll have to rather not care.

I am mincing my words, you will notice.

There must be something poetic in the model I'm adopting. A scathing review of death itself. Now it too looks only like actually.

I'm responding ipso facto to maybe, from a show you must know. But not actually. She's borrowed from another level--she's just here looking for keys. If you think you notice hair dangling over shadowy eyes you'll notice instead the fact that you have noted that you've noticed; the problem is refraction in every boring piece of speech. And at the bottom, a unicorn.

I was introduced to infinity when I had my mirror stage; I'd been carrying the one (from a compact) and I found myself in front of my parents' dressing mirror, or this is how it's been passed down to me. I looked and I saw none other than my sufficient self--before there was a previous place to direct the energy and confidence: no self until I reached into the hall of mirrors (as it were) and pulled out this identity. I still cannot say whether it fits.

That's my crisis. Rather flimsy, already knowing itself to be false and wondering only about scale. It took no laconic theoretic jibe at the baselessness and the lack, the...all that, to illustrate the death of the subject. You'll see I simply had to already know: it was an illustration, so to speak, which brought me to know anything. The birth of the ideal, the removal from the imaginary.

There. You've got your terms.

It was just that there were far too many me's to cope with on a daily basis. They say that putting things plainly adds character to an otherwise overstuffed academic spleen--I know that's a lot, but sometimes....we must take the tone of the shit we're describing. And then every time something profane is approached, usually we warn the audience well in advance; we don't want anyone jumping just yet. The sea is swarming with the noisiest carp.

no lack's ever filled!

the Death drummer is a bit like Lars for the fact that to play his stuff well you must actually be sitting at the set--we all know the drummers of knees, remarkable demonstrations as well. But here you prove you know this by bouncing from the center--yes, the center lives on here, it provides quite the thrust; the push of the song, its goddamn bounce. In metal this is extremely valuable.

Ravens, crows, crabs and snakes have died onstage for it. They also make up for it.

cautawall--

Now I mention this because, as you will notice, there isn't a thing I can do about it: inevitable that you will stumble into a mucky pit of this....sort of music. At its worst it is the funnest thing to hate--

Really a blast to bitch about death black metal. You'll be surprised the insults that will occur to you. Who wouldn't pay to become more inventive with insulting; you'd hate to know that half your language is wasted on justifying the world to you and perhaps others---but on to vituperate, dazzling calumny. War of Words was the first time I heard Rob Halford!

Hahaha

Kreator, however.

This cannot be said of an iota of death black grind dirge, even: that throughout it's the how-they-do-it aspect of jamming to death black grind dirge, even.

Perhaps Kreator is the example of how this can go hideously wrong. One accepts that the players know this and that about the genre called death black grind (dirge). The vocalist snake-shit, he clinches the offense until you're after me for mentioning it--Kreator, to return, is bile out-your ass. Really incredibly terrible.

as I was saying, death.

As in,

The band Death has something we all thought...would at least be strange. But the rest of us know better, musicianship in death metal is simply the aesthetic--the very ground on which blood drips et cetera.

But they've got more of it, and it's better--

Listen, the singer will explain. This will positively jar you--recall that the strangest aspect of Megadeth in the Peace Sells days is that they had a drummer named Gar. Death follows that with a gently gay singer songwriter lead-guitarist: the far too modest father of death metal. This also explains why they keep the solos away from the vocals, and the band is the freest: they've got the director again. Now each is his own: solos, however, played deadpan together, stringently close: no layers, each is synced quite nice.

It startles the more you listen, I promise: forget it hasn't the flavor you'd typically appreciated applied to anything, let alone sharp musicianship.

Skit scat, ain't no body goin listen to that shit.

"No doubt you wanted to figure it out yourself; the problem with synthetic material is that it warps not what you expect,"

This couldn't have been more vague; I listen to death metal all night and I wake up thinking like this; and I can stop the semi-colon.

I know that half of them are recovering from the resentment that fueled Metallica et al, but they've lost most of their humor--thorough purges for death heads, they can also clean shockingly well if it is that time again, to punish oneself. It leads to a more thorough, messy, slam through any particular cavern of the grind.

I learned the language of criticism and I've always loved metal, so they'd say. Only now I look for what to parody critically--not so much mocking any longer, though this is how it once was played. I know, I am knowing--about death metal particularly from the base level, the foundations, the earthenware.

These are declarations of the

.

changa

I see no reason, then, for not complying with the prompts you did receive.

Actually there weren't any. The universe is empty. This is the promptest of all the prompts--

Not the boy with broken glasses in a sea of books...what was the wreckage for...why are you saying this? You must conceptualize absolute emptiness--this is no angsty rant.

Inspiration here is not suffering because it's mostly a slow repulsive drag, in the sense of being squeezed out of one's ration of hot air. too many moments of matters-not.

they said: again, please.

They also said I ought to become addicted to this, because I cannot help having a way with words; it is...one cannot escape...you know exactly what. No matter what I'll do it's just like riding a bike...complete sentences at least, eh? No, total confidence. Here they are hearing you; go on, exploit the situation.

Needs and wants, craving all the time for a good spot of emptiness to hold me over until I can get back to reading; that's fine for now, sip on the stew of ungainliness and remorse. They hear that too! They hear all the tones you're missing without those spanking new headphones--those which are absolutely vital to the continuation of musical discourse here on earth while we're all relatively still damned. It's fading, you see: the sense that we'll burn. We're pretty sure it's just going to end and no one will feel too bad. No one feels now--not truly unless they're advertising!--and how will this look in a decade?

The end will be attached and might not even open in a new window when you explicitly click for that.

At any rate, I was told to do this again in a minute; after precisely a minute's break, and that will help. The world...the universe...

ahhhhht least I'm honest

It's like confronting everyone at once so that I see only a few faces but they're spliced and rather like the Scanner Darkly multi-face----

Again, look around. Terrifying, and yet again I. Just will interrupt myself to say, stage fright during rehearsal. The worst, knowing it'll be filled tonight and it might swallow you. But therein lies the convenience of the shock of real live people out there...more nervous than the performer, who knows his neighbors are only personas--if he gets away with naming them however he wants, they will likely discriminate amongst their own moods, they'll tell the artist he's working overtime for nothing, better enjoy not learning anymore: this will become you rather well; once it's over they can all say, he wasn't quiet. Had his number blocked here and there, the worst (yet most infrequent) dialer no matter the state of mind: a cancer with commentary.

finally it is truly personal, completely. as if.

Is this...possible? No, pretty sure it ain't.

She said that for the lover not the husband of letters--of journals--we put up with...errors. Husbands are loyal writers, they make sense, they comment upon how they are doing it.

What can I do about that--Sontag said it, after all. Jealous passionate rage--that sounds fine as an ingredient to this project, whatever it is. It comes out too fast. One cannot hold fast--one's heard of holding fast and this...

Doesn't work.

No, the distance's insufficient. I'm sitting right here. I am not the hero of consciousness, I see nothing but...boring stupidity droning on.

That's what will happen. Tell me again, we'll personalize...what would that look like if I of all writer-persons took it seriously? Just another blogger! Just another decentered soul digitized! What...the conversation is not real anymore? Not connected enough...no, just not smart and convinced, holding nothing at stake.

Yes?

An elephant has already walked out. Waiting to hear back from past journals, recognition from three of them ratifies the blog.

Terrified? Not sure? Bothered and quite ready to begin?

said look.

Thinking too late at night about the problem of publishing.

Don't let me run off with the subject: Click to see the results.

I have not transferred anything of sufficient worth to a large enough audience to say that I am fit for publication. But as I recently typed to a professor, “in my study style owns.” I have worthy stuff, you'd say so yourself. Publishing must begin soon so that I have padding, yes, so that I float up into the office complex of that one floor, the sixth of Pray Harold where professors are abuzz especially on early-semester Mondays, they positively hum with production—-of thoughts too sharp and various to mention here.

Accept it that it all tests one’s patience with the limits of language to say just What is connecting the strands of this interdisciplinary conversation within one department. The humanities are alive in here, the entire realm of creative and speculative thought is shifting around. Fortunately I swim well in several domains, I am eclectic, et cetera. But the content I've tossed up onto the web is too miscellaneous; one takes me for mad in letters.

As if I am driven to lose the audience since I assume they're in the dark—-I’m blinded by stage lights and I try, I try painfully hard, to see the audience like I'm waiting for a sneeze I know is doomed the moment I itch. Just look at my face as I peer: jaded suggesting early tarnishment. I’ve diluted and used up the best of my brand in a medium too causal to merit much attention--we question not a priori--regardless of the editorial labor I’ve exacted surely it’s all for naught.

Just so, the metallic scratches of everyday use gather round the center of the literary lamp like glowing conviviality. In Middlemarch it appeared as vanity...here the social web is...appreciated for its effects on discourse. One had better embrace hypertext—-links appearing (as) italics.

A time-honored link

Have I established the tone yet, can I speak about certain things here, will I be brought up on charges if I mention...I want a broader audience for literature and theory--a critical audience made general. Not so surprising; at any rate, what is your topic again?

Writing criticism is not the issue. It is creating literature--even if through criticism, enjoining courses of reading until they are taken by creative writers in critical ways--can I at least just say, I want the blend here to be almost...taken in by this authority and spanked.

Until that is one reads the proposal, eh? A swath of converts required--I think I'll try ransoming my intellect with the help of this creative writer sitting waiting patiently in the other room finally asking: will this work logically? True, it follows a train of thought and arrives at a certain point, an end to a chapter perhaps not of the argument.

An earnest beginning--you will have time later for organizing a theory if ever there is to be one and I think there'd better not---this is writing criticism in the idiom of poetry. Or in the high modernist fashion implying certain modest recreations---make it new versus nothing-outside-the-text, precisely that tugging.

Nada.

A dirty bit of laundry escaped me as I walked to the stoop, I fell almost. As in, I slipped.

Sorry it still rather hurt.

Anyway I dreamed of you as sand, said the band, from here across the ocean==and this was powerful in a way, we all waited for the romantic sentiment to say--no, actually! and Would you move over?

--You're in the way.

I am a strange one with whom to hold base-level (a la Marx) interactions, work. Cash.

and....there was a hint of something. Quite odd to think of.

And look at the time go! Poof! Without an iota of whatever that may have actually

...

It is truly unfortunate

The way you are going about this--

Not that the coffee is in any way satisfying, or serves as a useful distraction from your dry raisin bar.

Just keep with it--that's what they'll tell you. Even when it hurts it's so boring. They say, even when it's not fun, keep at it!

You always wanted it to be fun. Where did you get that? A nice assumption completely unrealistic. Work is to be rewarded; fun, tolerated.

Of course you can always reverse that. Haven't you learned how to extract the gray material from the middle of such reversals?

No one's in that group anymore; is this a problem? That the room is empty? Better acoustics that way? Lean forward, we get a better angle off the edge of your cheekbone. Left one---I said left!

Eternity of Discourses presents...

Do the dishes.

Goodbye.

I'm restless, pennies in the cash drawer, recounting. Not stupid yet, that follows at a different location. I'm in charge of this...State street store.

Very nice.

Enormous. Heinously large.

Two stories! No cafe in the lower, just seating: soft furniture, however. There wasn't much sex down there so I'm aware.

The fireplace upstairs was a pain. Leaked.

isn't this....is this not....in any case?

it was there that I learned the charm of sitting still....until, that is, you walked. In.

Listen to the rhythm of that!
Nice!

As long as we can believe that there are at least 2 people talking, you know, they regret the names you give them.

At least I don't have to hit the shift key. anyway, i...

I think that I really do need to hit that every now and...

Exactly. Publish this, please...

Without looking backwards and knowing it's just gibberish.

This is beyond a dream...it's incredible to be playing a show like this...in front of all you people--!!

Well that's Anselmo, again.

I don't know--exactly--how to blog, as in it disgusts me and I don't like it, ergo I cannot perform well in this medium.

But this is bullshit.

There's nothing scary about a blogger post: in fact, it's a great plan and I'm glad to be a part of it. Except I cannot stand it, the online journal. Not that I hate reading others' blogs; I simply never bother. It's the fact of their being blogs...

I don't know ... Against the everyday bits people throw up on them, or against the idea of that? The latter. Yes.

So my prejudice only directs me to my own website which I cannot seem to publish because to do so is baffling. Sitespinner and Jumpline, technology dumbed down remarkably but not enough for Mark.

I'd feel safer, more in my own space there, now...why won't it work...because this blog is a training bra? Do you believe in Fate, Mal?

No, that is not even the issue. In fact that's not how I feel at all. Listen to me. I have no idea what I'm writing about. No clue, and I think this is the only way I can justify a blog: if it carries no weight, yes, if it seems to never matter at all...

Yet someone will get a hold of this and scrutinize and surely among the first responses will be that I obeyed the foulest four letters known to man--

It does have a certain voluptuous nastiness to it, blog. Missive was too polite, eh?

I'm convinced as ever writing here is...tossing crums into the void.