Thursday, November 12, 2015

recovery process?

maybe my inner archivist will be how i get [sh]it done, because i didn' think this w/could happen and as fast as it is, i seeing how this urge advancing and will continue to push diablesse diaries [sooncome, my biglove]...
anyway, as ever, no ado nor order; lemme start with someting benefitting alla-we: freerice donates food everytime you answer correctly and seem to have science+humanities as well as the default vocabulary questions.
when thinking font, losttype@sidebar; bonus is this story about a local signpainter i wondering about for years, wondering if anybody else find he should be credited with designing a locally ubiquitous font, thrilled to see this happening...
while on resources, taino names for caribbean islands.
and a different kinna resource entirely, temporary (10minute), self-destructing email addresses!
different kinna destruction, no matter how many times i read[glasnost/anon] it...
different kinna amazing use of words/imagery in this graphic novel dissertation on the relationship between words+pictures and ways we construct knowledge.
musical research on we ting now, the roots of rapso; soundin' like weself...
and research/roots of [my]self: research tools+methods so you don't outsource your thinking, reminder that storytelling is everything! and because i live in constant existential terror, what makes you you? you are not your brain or your body...and because the existential-actual-crisis part of me is the writer who struggles with story and sometimes need reminding, this collection of txt remind me of editing the storyfountain but in the bes' way, because this stuff works better [inside joke; told you, is for me]:
1. When she tried to sing, it sounded like a walrus giving birth to farm equipment.
2. Her eyes twinkled, like the moustache of a man with a cold.
3. She was like a magnet: Attractive from the back, repulsive from the front.
4. The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
5. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room temperature Canadian beef.
6. She had him like a toenail stuck in a shag carpet.
7. The lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object.
8. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
9. Her eyes were like the stars, not because they twinkle, but because they were so far apart.
10. His career was blowing up like a man with a broken metal detector walking through an active minefield.
11. The sun was below the watery horizon, like a diabetic grandma easing into a warm salt bath.
12. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes at a 7:00 p.m. Instead of 7:30.
13. It was as easy as taking candy from a diabetic man who no longer wishes to eat candy.
14. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes before it throws up.
15. Their love burned with the fiery intensity of a urinary tract infection.
16. It's basically an illusion and no different than if I were to imagine something else, like Batman riding a flying toaster.
17. If it was any colder, it would be like being in a place that's a little colder than it is here.
18. Joy fills her heart like a silent but deadly fart fills a room with no windows.
19. The bird flew gracefully into the air like a man stepping on a landmine in zero gravity.
20. He felt confused. As confused as a homeless man on house arrest.
21. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.

write fresh.
walk good.

1 Comments:

Blogger Jake MacMillan said...

#1 and #2 are my favorites. Another one of my faves is "She gave me a look I could feel in my wallet." Chandler, I think.

5:01 pm  

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Monday, November 02, 2015

shift

loss changes you. and sometimes loss that seem minor from the outside is heartbreak.
i suddenly realise since i lose that huge collection of ting-to-archive i stop blogging. writing still, yes but not blogging, because i slightly scared to reach where i was before and lose big again; was done feeling like enough loss had come my way for a few years well...
invisible loss brings existential crisis; i read, i read writers, read writers reviewing writers, read, and write...and wish i felt like i think like them, write like them, like the "real writers"...i can truthfully say i am a dancer but is that only because of specific circumstances allowing for somebody who doh have all the things to be a dancer, to get away with doing so? because as much as i am idealist, i am realist, and i have long known i doh have all the things...
loss, this rounds, no matter what, must propel. forward progress. build on foundation i know strong: make/art/wuk. is all.
walk good.

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