This post isn’t about throwing off machines by nonsense monologuing or whether I care about what grade some stupid algorithm decides to give any post of mine. It’s about dreams.
With my poor eyesight, I now have a deep distrust of items that look anything like little pinecones or dirt clods abandoned in the middle of the living room.
“Are you even writing anymore?” as if it’s something like a tree falling in the forest: not really there unless someone is able to respond to it.
I kind of assumed it’d be one of those things we talk about, but never do, but it turns out it’s one of those things we talk about, then buy books about, then talk to experts about, then spend a bunch of money on.
I’ve written and junked entire chapters and rewritten others and shoehorned new ones in to fill holes I somehow missed the first seven dozen drafts. I’ve written and thrown away hundreds of thousands of words between outlining and drafting and editing and revising.
Notice there’s water on the floor, wonder if it’s pee, melted snow, or water from his bowl. Clean and sanitize as though it’s pee, just to be safe, while Norman destroys the dishcloth.
I left the appointment wondering how tennis and bouldering could result in the same sort of injury, and also how much umbrage I should take at Dave’s assumption I wasn’t in training for anything in particular.
I sent grey-haired guy occasional mental double finger guns with ‘chk-chk’ sounds and virtual high fives in solidarity from across the room.
Most of the pieces we owned were either examples of altered-state decision-making, or stuff someone gave to us, left to us, or hid in our house to be found later
Our kid had to self-quarantine last week after being exposed to the Scourge. We weren’t surprised. He’d gone a month employing the kind of measures one does against such an eventuality when one exists in the era of a global pandemic but also just turned 21 and by rights should be living his best life. […]
