Book writing is something I have always had mixed feelings about. It is one of the hardest things a person can do and I feel the all-too-familiar pain in my viscera even speaking about it. One must devise a way to begin; and so I think it best to just begin, now, as the ball is rolling, that is to say be writing a book at all moments. I should not wait to start writing. The Cosmic Blague this year will focus on a fortnight per gender sign, as I read through Sextrology and share my insights. Almost like a radio and/or podcaster. Wait a minute, I could do a bi-weekly podcast and discuss my findings. I could make a schedule. Surfing how to set up a podcast goes to the top of the to-do list.
I can promise you, Self, that we are nearly so-called caught up to ourSelves and feeling the creative juices flowing. Why just this morning at 3:33 you were thinking a myriad things, while lying awake in the cold Cape Cod dark; for instance, how the term content creator can be read two ways. Making that a mantra moving forward. It’s actually February 4, 2018 so it’s fun to stumble upon the previous paragraph written this actual day in Libra, to find yourself doing something you’d have hoped you would. And, anyway, we are damned good writers and good thinkers and we want to make spirits bright. I know that sounded like the title of a Christmas show, but I have so much better than ever a one for this year’s performance.
Typing italically can be quite liberating, sometimes in the moment; especially when you’re in the mood or mode for the sound of the words and their placement to be a pleasing thing, your fingers just typing all the letters, errorlessly, into the white space in a flow of rhythm. Fun. It’s Sunday and I’ve been teatotalling and otherwise treating myself like a new-born baby, to which one must be wont. It’s a good time of year for it. But let’s reflect back on this actual day, Libra 15°, early October, Stella Starsky performed at Dixon Place, and we returned to Cape Cod for two weeks time before our four weeks away in the UK and France. We were collecting marine debris from the Wellfleet beaches and working them into costumes we were to wear at a fancy dress party in Scotland just post Halloween. I wasn’t dealing well with the social clime, neither am I still. Now, though, I feel the stemming tide.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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