I had a nightmare the moon smoldered and spun, then fell out of orbit. Afterward, I wondered about the consequences, but I did not immediately feel adverse effects. I knew they would come, though, since I’d been told the moon holds sway over the oceans and such, and by extension, factors in as far as human behavior — what with us consisting of up to 60 percent water. That’s according to the US Geological Survey.
Recently I had a flat tire, so I had to join AAA on the spot. They charged me an extra fee because normally you have to wait a certain period before requesting assistance. But it was cheaper than calling a tow truck. I had initially pulled over at a gas station and attempted to fill my tire with air, but I couldn’t revive it: My dashboard said the pressure remained at 0.00 percent.
Thinking about both these things, I drew a connection. I surmised the message was my life was out of balance.
There are multiple ways to write. A few examples: a) you already have the story in your head, pretty much in its entirety (this happens to me sometimes); b) you invent a character, put it somewhere, like a store or a cafe or a gym, and let the character take charge of the story; c) and I just thought of this one, you can discuss a topic that interests you with a friend while recording the conversation. Then listen to it and transcribe your more interesting remarks.
I suppose that last one would be better suited for essay writing.
There’s a documentary on Kenneth Koch on YouTube, and he mentions a technique whereby he just gets behind a typewriter then writes unfiltered. The he goes back and edits — or more like, salvages.
I also read an interview in the book The Essential Allen Ginsberg where Ginsberg advised his writer friends to do like he does if they want to put out a book: go though your journals and pick/choose/edit.
What about who I am or what. I’m not sure how many people think in terms of “what” when they consider their identity, but do you think of “what” often, or is it more like “who?” We might consider a little of both. It seems that the what is more like which labels apply, or what do you feel like in relation to them. And who might be ego or your archived past. I can’t find labels that suit me most of the time. Weirdo maybe. Or unorthodox. Or strange. Politically correct I am unique. Interesting.
I feel like nothing. I have empty inside me but it feels nice. This is the joy of dumbness, or being struck dumb. I am dumb in the face of the mysteries of the universe. I cannot comprehend. I “understand” the universe spiritually but it ends there. Nothing else really registers, though a good Thai meal or a noteworthy cup of coffee or a poem will resonate. Good music like the unplugged jazz I listen to or certain classical music, like Beethoven or Schumann piano pieces or Schubert trios. Chopin and etc.
My house is like a religious house. No one here is religious but it is constantly quiet with us reading or thinking or daydreaming or sleeping or eating. My cat is loud enough to make up for the rest of us.
I read a ton of books, but I’m too lazy to post book reviews. Also, reading for me is a personal experience, and I suppose that could become tainted in a way by sharing my reactions to a book. Like, to give an analogy, one time I was hiking at a high elevation in the mountains and it began to snow. It was so quiet up there that I could hear the snowflakes as they fell onto the trees and bushes. I thought it was so beautiful that my first reaction was to whip out my phone with the intention of taking video. But then I was like, the video would do this no justice. Also, it was a very personal experience that I felt would be corrupted and spoiled in a way by posting footage on Facebook or wherever else. Wouldn’t it kinda be like sleeping with someone then telling about it?
A freight train blows its hard horn (bright horn?) this morning.
I live in the suburbs and I can hear it — me and my cat.
There are tracks running through this town, and from time to time, rail crossings you might encounter unexpectedly, where you have to sit at the red light and wait for the endless line of rail cars.
The standard motor vehicles make just as much noise, anyway. I hear them like static on the receiving end of a phone. Not to mention their smoke.
Then there’s my retired neighbor with his generator that he uses for his pressure washer to clean his yard, where he also has a hot tub, along with a fluorescent blue bug zapper and a flatscreen, as well as a wife who does Zumba.