Fun To Write
I think as I'm writing and wrestling with rhythm and sound that meaning doesn't matter, at least at the moment. At least I say that. And then I read some of my recent entries and notice what I'm writing, stuff that comes into my head and leaves just as quickly, but because it caught me at the keyboard it ended up here. Who in the fuck cares if my gums feel numb? I don't care if my gums feel numb, why should I devote a paragraph to numb gums?
I have consistently said write down whatever comes and then work it out - the "practice" aspect - and don't worry (be happy). But that too was just a thought passing through. It has never been totally clear to me that I believe it. Maybe I'm just being lazy. I've had another domain name that I've been planning to build into a "real site", one that will present material written crafted for actual consumption, the "right stuff" site as opposed to the lazy assed "wrong stuff" I run here.
No Buffy stuff on this new site, you understand, although I realize I confuse Buffy (The Vampire Slayer) with Sabrina (The Teenage Witch), which (koff!) I assume is a Buffy rip off, so every time someone I respect goes into a Buffy schtick I think about the talking cat and I, um, throw up. Buffy, I assume, doesn't have a talking cat. I should find Buffy and watch an episode, but I'd rather just sit here and assume Buffy is one of those things I'd watch if I were younger and smarter and more sophisticated, but I don't because I'm old and my interests have changed, a deal with the devil (if you haven't seen her, don't say hello), but a safe deal with the devil insofar as deals with the devil go.
I drove over to Telegraph Avenue thinking I'd fill the tank with gas, which I did, another month, another tank, and check out the street fair near the University if I could find a parking space, which I couldn't, so I went by the vet and picked up some of the special cat food for Mr. Wuss, had a latte next door at a local coffee shop and came home with the sun shining and the temperature in the mid sixties. Here in Oakland in December. Why am I not out taking pictures?
Because life is not necessarily about being out on a warm afternoon with a camera in Oakland shooting
swell pictures of people and things that have never before been photographed like good looking women and cute little kitty cats, things that will cause famous magazine editors to ask for meetings and make total strangers stop you in the street to offer money and sex, their wives, sisters and daughters. Those kind of photographs. Of which there are many. For those who can see them. Cool eyed dudes and dudettes with souls and eyes beyond the ken of mere mortals. Like the characters you read about in comic books: Xray eyes, auto focus, brains like creamy cheese.
"Like a comic book character? Brains like creamy cheese?.
Yeah, I know, but it's fun to write.
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