at least the blasted machine play the st.ans + theophilus london + sweeney...

what frustrating me months now is that the state of this machine makes writing not just painfully slow but physically uncomfortable and eventually painful, so i want to write but don't, because i cyah get settled enough. i really thought this situation would be over by now and it making me a little stir-crazy, so i trying a quick ting to relieve some pressure. plus, of course, i have ting to archive...speaking of which, universe, i looking for one of these, please...

i survive the dreaded chikungunya; suspect i had a (relatively) mild case. my feet still hurt but at least i back out to dance (a little). that was making me a little crazy too.
supposed to read and speak at bocas litfest in south weekend coming; reading suckeye, but the talking on a panel about local crime fiction, terrifying...who's me? but they say they want me because i was so enjoyable when they had me on the shakespeare panel in april, and i had a lovely time doing it, so how could i not?
thought i would be upset about not being in that movie for longer than i was, but i think the way they move soured me on them enough that i doh wanna work with them anymore, so is nutting...
sooo, now that i sitting here, uncomfortably, ready to exercise the writing muscle in spite of, i realise that what i wanna write is all for the script and trying to explore that here, now, doh make sense (although i will, as soon as i get some time with script and new machine)...so instead lemme explore one of the things bubbling on my backburner lately, because people keep doing it...i am flummoxed by the ability to be an asshole, know one is being an asshole, then be unpleasantly surprised by my negative response to one's fuckery. i think i'm coming to the conclusion that is a kinna willful arrogance and ignorance of reality, in the assumption that my love for you means i accept any treatment at your hands uncomplainingly, as though i am less than a person myself. this phenomenon is particularly acute when functioning in conjunction with the muse-as-tool problem, which i face far too often because too many are too selfish and too thoughtless to realise that a human muse, while providing a wonderful facility, should not be treated like a tool, but like a person. obvious to me but apparently not obvious enough to nearly enough...and having articulated that helped just like i hoped; i think i right about the asshole behaviour, and will continue as i have been of late, locking it off, in spite of assholes not liking that. everybody get enough chances. party done.
so, i good dey, so lewwe share the wealth.
1st, some music i need to relocate when new machine reach and i adding to my listening collection again: trini boy st.ans' all saints day: the anarchist's order is an album to hear+get-to-keep, and same for nex' trini boy theophilus london's new album vibes.
this i archive for when i need a proper dose of hilarity: the rainbow-cake comment-apocalypse.
literary jumper-cables: clickable periodic table of storytelling tropes.
this is about sharing moreso than archiving, but it cyah hurt to be able to reference black moms talking about "the talk" with white moms; when reading, even if it eh news to you, get to the final sentence for the real point.
random assemblage of short stories that recently delivered reading delight; well, maybe not "delight" as none of them particularly joyous, per se, but each, differently, held me in thrall:
neil gaiman's a study in emerald.
unconnected, neil gaiman's snow, glass, apples.
stephen king's herman wouk is still alive.
david foster wallace's backbone.
matt getty's keeping susie whole.
this sweeney todd opening is an absolute must-watch, for me, over+over+again+again; that is direction fadda!
and this last, because it silly and because, the lyric "badman doh pull out usb safely"...

walk good.