Lying in bed in a kind of fugue, I drifted off into reading a newspaper--that wasn't the concentration of the dream; it was a prop. I kept forcing my consciousness to read bits of the paper before it disintigrated, and they were pure nonsense groupings of words.
"really Hello it's yes."
"journal purple thing, hairbrush"
now that I can highlight tasks and have them available for my ready discernment... it's painfull obvious how little I want to work on any of the things I want to work on. I find myself a font of brilliant little story nuggets that probably will never work themselves out but serve to divert me from feeling accomplished in any manner by reducing the items on my list. Ugh.
Chatting in the latest-and-greatest nfg chatroom... latest-and-greatest as of a few weeks ago. maybe longer, now; hard to keep track. It's all a fucking blur. Having lots of plot ideas for stories. Trying to start a discussion on plotting at imaginaries. Sitting in a chatroom there (old, old chatroom; need to modernize it; need to modernize all of imaginaries, as always, as fucking always), waiting for someone, anyone to show up and discuss things, plotting in general, intelligently. La la la. Having lots of ideas for plots, but no solid plots. I've been struggling with one hokey idea for two weeks, and I've got it worked out into something far less hokey (good by me), far more convoluted (sure, fine), and probably still just as stupid and worthless in its own right. But I'm trying to nail it down to details, dots that can be connected. And, like I said, chatting in nfg. Oh yeah, and a line came out black instead of colored. Bugs, bugs, bugs. And I'm wishing I could copy-paste from it like I could with my old, outdated, colorless, ugly chatroom. Sad, neh? Progress!
Negative posts on poemranker about my art, and such. Which is life. Which is poemranker. Which is my mindset. La la la.
Right, and the comment on bugs brought me to a cute idea I had for a spin on Kafka's Metamorphosis. Which I actually haven't read. Me unliterate. So I should probably read it before attempting to spin. But it's a cute idea. I skwermsed it.
I'm currently reading Joseph Heller's _portrait of an artist as an old man_. It's beautiful and honest and horribly depressing. I feel far more in touch with 70yo than I should. And then some. Fucking hell.
I should post this and move on. :)