Pisces 26° (March 16)
I’m sad Stephen Hawking has left us; but I do need to admit something: He did end up making me feel paranoid much of the time. It’s one thing that he was an atheist who believed this was it—but he also said robots would take over the world. I don’t know about robots but I will say that tehcnology in the form of cyber warfare is of the same il. And with all the WH chaos—I dunno it’s all a bit too doomsday for me.
I used to be really good with a sort of energy work in my younger days.
My heart aches when I think about certain characters in books or films. For some reason the family of siblings in Howard’s End does that to me. It’s what’s not being spoken about their past, really, before the current circumstance presents. They have no parents and are far apart in age. Such a story there. Anyway, à propos of nothing. But, I dare say, at this point in my writing this Blague, having done major catch-up, it feels natural to coast and allow thoughts to flow. I might have said this already but, I was telling Stella last night: One goes into the endeavor of producing more than a fair amount of copy, the notion being that it must begin in the brain and make it down to typing fingers, which, of course is true; however, what one comes to discover is that the writing, the actual doing of the thing, is what pulls the thoughts down, and not just in one simple way; no, the content can be created (now that I’ve passed the extent of a retelling here) where, let’s say now we enter territories we’ve not entered before in musing upon the notion of this, that or anything; and I only got here but sitting down and starting to type. So there’s that way. Then, one may find themselves writing the next word being drawn by the rhythm of the words on (we can’t say paper anymore, unless paper itself becomes a metaphorical term) a white field on a computer screen; but it’s typically not just purely rhythm. No, the rhythm is nine times out of ten the result of some sort of poetry at work, a way to catch our metaphorical eye, our metaphysical fancy. The phone flashes: “On way back now”. I struggle to keep the thought or wonder if I’ve finished it. I suppose it falls under the heading of metaliterature or stream of consciousness or both, I dunno. But I can tell you this, that there are fewer sensations so relaxing as writing in this “mode” just as nothing can be more tension making or near seizure inducing as a bottled up process of writing whereby one feels the blocked energy from brain, back of the head, down neck and shoulders, down and out arms, hands and fingertips.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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