June 1, 2008 at 7:42 pm 2 comments

As you can see, I am to the point I can make regular postings.  I still haven’t (for instance) installed Firefox; I’m absolutely sure I won’t install anything further today, which means nothing at all.  I’m working toward something vaguely resembling a rewrite of a book begun ten years ago or so.  Actually my perspective has changed considerably.  The attempt at definition of reality is meaningless unless it includes the realization that reality’s a changing thing–language is a changing thing–as are other media–so it’s getting it just right while the boat rolls; flash it right with quick enough shutter speed and you got it.


I plan nothing else today.  I’ve had Vicodin again for a while.  It certainly doesn’t kill the pain, but it does lessen it, enough that I have to lay back on the exercise bit.  Enough.  Pain’s worse now because of the back.


Entry filed under: philosophy, writing and thought. Tags: , , , , , , .


2 Comments Add your own

  • 1. tercero  |  June 1, 2008 at 7:47 pm

    Ask yourself the reason for writing a book? Is it to leave behind a legacy of some sort or to resolve inner issues that all artists seek: expression?…Do not let the evolving state of art intimidate you: your expression should not be hindered by the high (of drugs too) amounts of mediums possible.
    The greatest art, including the classics and contemporary art manages to encompass that which man has known since the dawn of consciousness. Even though society evolves in its methods of expression the same messages are still being perpetuated: Life, Love, Faith, ect.

    and one more thing: dont plan, just do.

  • 2. oregonnerd  |  June 2, 2008 at 1:53 pm

    We’ll try this again. I actually backed that up by an e-mail. The ‘reason’ I write isn’t singular in the first place. It started with being (according to tests, and I won’t say they’re valid) a genius adopted into a household of religious fundamentalists with some minor sexual problems like sexual and other child abuse. I more or less missed out on the sexual bit (darn).

    A free manuscript–couldn’t do anything about it if I tried–is at , was closed in 1983 and most of the poetry dates from the Vietnam war and Whidbey Island, which I left in 1978.

    The other reason I read and write is a compulsion to seek “truth”. Or something like that.


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