Writing as a vocation has never been for the faint of heart, it does not take a lot of reading to remind myself of that. Currently making my way through Samuel Johnson's Life of Richard Savage––instructive. The emergence of the little-paid (if at all) Grub Street writer, snatching sheets of papers from shops, declaiming verses on the streets of London, dead on credit, coffee shop squalls.*
The less I care about social media the less it cares about me. I like it that way. Methodically, you can inhabit nooks within the algorithm and ignore the static. Find other crevice dwellers.
Insert some Lou Reed quote about art needing to scare you. I disagree.... tragic anything is a self-fulfilling urge, destruction caused by sitting by the fire and wondering what it feels like to experience radiant heat. The mistakes we live with, the wisdom––not of age––of the consequences of careless choices. We did not learn to harness fire before it burned us, over and over.
Getting fabric right is a form of this. It is difficult to imagine the type of blowback the platform will generate, if it is set in the wrong way. I would not trust anyone in Silicon Valley to get it right. I barely trust myself (to set up a template). But the alternative....**
The unspoken tragedy behind crocodiles eating five year olds in theme parks, great apes taking children for playmates (to be scoped and shot by zookeepers). When the wild animals you see have Pixar eyes, how to react to real teeth?
Sleepless nights best for quips. The overactive mind.
I create a new narrative structure in my head, it is disturbing––people and their various ways of falling from grace. The aftermath, the survivors––internal grace, forged from events out of one's control. Desire.
Virtue is the escape pod of those who....
I begin to speak in wild riddles, like Dr. Johnson, my meaning not exactly clear. At age 40 I am still a sponge for a good storyteller, I mull and regurgitate. Only now I marinate it in my own mixture of garlic and brine.
A sketch, a Dumaguete start to the new novel, if you will believe. I'll put it up in a day or two. The beauty of the Blog. I own it.
#endwriter
* To have lived in an era when the quill was deadly. To have lived at all, future generations of life-potential matter will whisper––aware in their nonexistence how badly we effed up.
**Tragedy of the commons (sic) middle man.
The less I care about social media the less it cares about me. I like it that way. Methodically, you can inhabit nooks within the algorithm and ignore the static. Find other crevice dwellers.
Insert some Lou Reed quote about art needing to scare you. I disagree.... tragic anything is a self-fulfilling urge, destruction caused by sitting by the fire and wondering what it feels like to experience radiant heat. The mistakes we live with, the wisdom––not of age––of the consequences of careless choices. We did not learn to harness fire before it burned us, over and over.
Getting fabric right is a form of this. It is difficult to imagine the type of blowback the platform will generate, if it is set in the wrong way. I would not trust anyone in Silicon Valley to get it right. I barely trust myself (to set up a template). But the alternative....**
The unspoken tragedy behind crocodiles eating five year olds in theme parks, great apes taking children for playmates (to be scoped and shot by zookeepers). When the wild animals you see have Pixar eyes, how to react to real teeth?
Sleepless nights best for quips. The overactive mind.
I create a new narrative structure in my head, it is disturbing––people and their various ways of falling from grace. The aftermath, the survivors––internal grace, forged from events out of one's control. Desire.
Virtue is the escape pod of those who....
I begin to speak in wild riddles, like Dr. Johnson, my meaning not exactly clear. At age 40 I am still a sponge for a good storyteller, I mull and regurgitate. Only now I marinate it in my own mixture of garlic and brine.
A sketch, a Dumaguete start to the new novel, if you will believe. I'll put it up in a day or two. The beauty of the Blog. I own it.
#endwriter
* To have lived in an era when the quill was deadly. To have lived at all, future generations of life-potential matter will whisper––aware in their nonexistence how badly we effed up.
**Tragedy of the commons (sic) middle man.
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