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Jun. 27th, 2007 07:51 pmI'm relieved to find this journal has fallen into near obscurity, enough to where I can openly admit that: 1) I yearn to wear a false moustache in public; 2) I enjoy a good flogging; and 3) I once killed a man in Albuquerque -- without feeling the need to add a disclaimer. (Disclaimer: None of the aforementioned is true.)
A bit ago, Leisy came in, took a shower, went out -- but only after I demanded to know where she was headed. A writing group, she told me, then asked if I wanted to come along. I was lying in my bed with the door open, fully clothed and half-covered by a sheet, waxing defensive against a non-existent group of harassers. "I'd want to go, but I don't feel like being forced to write."
"They'll force you to write, but they won't make you share what you write."
"Still!"
I've been considering changing my major, aligning myself with the Literature Studies vein. Writing/Rhetoric feels like a ruse, particularly when people ask what I'm studying... then eventually ask what I'm writing, and I have to think of some slippery, non-descript answer rather than fess up and tell them, "Really, I don't write a thing!"
"You don't??" they'll ask in horror. "Then what DO you do with your time?"
And I'll have to tell them: I lie in my bed with the door open, fully clothed and half-covered by a sheet, waxing defensive in my online journal.
Also, sometimes, I sit and weigh the pros and cons of an afternoon nap; consider if it's worth running the gauntlet in my bathing suit to go relax in the hot-tub alone, and also if I'd be able to sit there and read without getting the pages wet. Sometimes, I eat ice cream. And still other times, I read articles, like the one today about different theories scientists have to explain consciousness. One scientist described it as being the inherent nature of a brain turned on, an "emergent property of the brain, similar to the 'wetness' of water". Mere neurons, synapses. My synapses conclude that this is a depressing idea.
My synapses conclude that I won't take a nap.
My synapses conclude that this post is finished.
A bit ago, Leisy came in, took a shower, went out -- but only after I demanded to know where she was headed. A writing group, she told me, then asked if I wanted to come along. I was lying in my bed with the door open, fully clothed and half-covered by a sheet, waxing defensive against a non-existent group of harassers. "I'd want to go, but I don't feel like being forced to write."
"They'll force you to write, but they won't make you share what you write."
"Still!"
I've been considering changing my major, aligning myself with the Literature Studies vein. Writing/Rhetoric feels like a ruse, particularly when people ask what I'm studying... then eventually ask what I'm writing, and I have to think of some slippery, non-descript answer rather than fess up and tell them, "Really, I don't write a thing!"
"You don't??" they'll ask in horror. "Then what DO you do with your time?"
And I'll have to tell them: I lie in my bed with the door open, fully clothed and half-covered by a sheet, waxing defensive in my online journal.
Also, sometimes, I sit and weigh the pros and cons of an afternoon nap; consider if it's worth running the gauntlet in my bathing suit to go relax in the hot-tub alone, and also if I'd be able to sit there and read without getting the pages wet. Sometimes, I eat ice cream. And still other times, I read articles, like the one today about different theories scientists have to explain consciousness. One scientist described it as being the inherent nature of a brain turned on, an "emergent property of the brain, similar to the 'wetness' of water". Mere neurons, synapses. My synapses conclude that this is a depressing idea.
My synapses conclude that I won't take a nap.
My synapses conclude that this post is finished.
