Yeah, yeah. Do your meditation walking
Another torrent of mediocre activity (can anything that comes in torrents be mediocre?) here in the Land of Make-Believe. (What are the two other phases of ocre? Maxiocre. mediocre, pianissimocre? Hold up.) Got some poems baking (nothing, just tarts), a couple comics waiting on the rack to prove themselves (ancient Chinese secrets), that story about a robot I’ve been at since age 9 bubbling up (automythographies don’t write themselves!), and this kicker with a sticker tarot deck concept that arrived unordered in the larder. Huh.
I may have skipped lunch today. And breakfast.
Making Playlists Counts As Prayer
I almost titled this section “Ultra-processed Moods”. Oh well.
It’s still difficult, really. Getting back to thinking with a keyboard. I’ve got at least eight fountain pens inked right now, and the paper, the paper I write on is smooth and toothy and blank and lined and dotted and milled and pocket-sized jumbo perfect, which is all to the good. But these days I need to make legible marks for other humans, and not with thumb skills. Clllick goes the pen. BANG goes the keyboard. Different patterns in the hands to convey the fluid pumping neurons and it’s a real thing, it is, this difference in pausing, tapping, scrawling, and all - the physical manner in which I move changes my thoughts. My pauses are different.
Or maybe I’m afraid, as Paul McCartney should have sung, but didn’t. If horses are hung and men are hanged, then songs are sung and when better hymns are sanged they’ll be Thomas Brodie-Sangstered. Try that one next time you’re buying a pornographic periodical from a priest.
True Story, actually
I had nothing to say when I came in here
Now I’ve twice as much.
Meet my cats, Fuck Off and Completely.