Sep. 12th, 2017

monk222: (Girls)
"Hah, I guess that blurty mood wasn't the real deal, eh?"

No, it sure doesn't feel like it. I guess it was my sleep deprivation. Too bad. Although it is kind of silly to want to be writing down my moods and thoughts like a pre-teen girl in her key-lock diary, I like the idea. I still have this picture in my head of me essentially typing my mind out on the page for a good 80% of my waking day, just taking time out to eat and get some reading done.

"Pfft, don't you need to have something to write? Don't you have to go out and live life a little?"

Yeah, that's the theory. And it would certainly help. But that's always been the big problem, not just with my writing, but for my life in general. With my looks and money, there's no life to live really.

And I still believe sex is key: sex keeps one interested in life and the world. When there is not the least promise of having a pretty girl working on your dick with her mouth and squealing and moaning to your punishing thrusts, it would seem, by my experience, that the inclination is to sort of just wilt and die slowly.
monk222: (Effulgent Days)
I've seen a couple of tweets of writers extolling pencil and paper as their favorite way to write. When I did not have the Internet, nor a word processor, I too romanticized the old way. But now, after years of working with word-processing programs, I feel like I couldn't go back, that having to scratch out phrases or lines, and writing new stuff in between the lines or out on the margins, can only cramp my style. It is tooo convenient to be able to make small or great revisions in a moment and be looking down at the finished product immediately. Another writer called this revision process "noodling", and the way he writes is just to endlessly noodle around with his text on the screen. That is the way I have come to see it and work it.

However, as fate might have it, my laptop could go out any day now, and my days of endless noodling will be over. I will have no choice but to go back to pen and paper.

Nonetheless, I have already come up with the consolation that if this should ever happen, I will practically have no choice but to dig out my poet's cap from my closet and write in short, fixed lines. Which is a fancy I've never been able to completely free myself from. I feel like I cannot do that now, not while I have the opportunity to write utterly freely and with abandon, able to perform major reconstructive surgery in seconds of keyboard clicking. Yet, when revisions become more costly, if I should ever fall back outside the Computer Age, then there might be a point in working in small frames.

If I had any true poetic knack, I would be doing that now anyway, but as it is, in my prosaic hands, it is best to reserve that for necessity, and to otherwise just let it all hang out and dump it all on the page, and maybe noodle it a little here and there to make it a tad more readable.

Pop

Sep. 12th, 2017 05:36 pm
monk222: (Global Warming)
Pop returns from his rounds with a couple of bags full, but it's not food. It's just goodies for him. I wonder if it's the new i-Phone, the i-10, or whatever. He complains about money, but everyday is still Christmas for him, in which he is both his own Santa and his own kid.

But the air-conditioner is still running in mid-September. I can keep my peace.
monk222: (DarkSide: by spiraling_down)
There are times (usually after the stress-release of a good wank) when I desire to recast my life as the life I wanted after all: that I preferred my life of books and dreams to, say, even making a couple of hundred thousand dollars a year as a big bureaucrat, and that I lived as a kind of poet of the world.

But I cannot wish away all the languishing anguish of my years as an adult-child, the humiliation of a life subordinated to borderline-retarded parents, a life without friends, a life without sex, this life of frozen pizza and cheap pornography.

I wish I could say that I at least found some consolation in the flight of the mind through the galaxies of ideas and the twilight zone of the imagination, but in truth, my thoughts were never able to stray very far from the poverty of my home life. From the slow creakings of my brain, I could never write so much as even one haiku or even a limerick . At best, I was able to take from my readings some pleasant distractions over the squalid years. I was able to keep from going too madly insane. And that is the best that I can say for myself.

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