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i told you i knew i was an insomniac
Four hours sleep last night and I've felt fantastic all day in spite of the expectation that today would be terrible which is what kept me zombieing around last night in the first place. wtff. Whereas yesterday was a washout where my brain never settled down and the only useful thing I did was a damn fine twelve-card reading where everything was yellow and black and blue, like a diagram of a bruise inside my head. It was balanced and yet focused, a little bit of everything that all amounted to a whole. Nines and fours and who's counting?
The first good thought I had all week was on Tuesday, when I walked outside with my dogs in the morning into a shower of yellow leaves, and it was a rare crossed wire between tao and America, on the day after Labour Day; the four seasons following each other in order. I finished my slow re-read of The Perpetual Train earlier, and recent attempts to learn stuff about culture make me think that it has the same origin story as Labour Day itself, but I first read it on a rail-trip south many years ago so anything is possible, anything.
Today the air was yellow and blue and grey, and I had to kill two hours after work before I could get back home so I went to the nearest thing I have to a local anything (a sushi bar near my workplace where they all know me by now) and read, and wrote. I write scenes in the morpho notebook - OF, about introverts in crowds in forgotten places. Not stories. And notes, stuff like obsessive commentary re. Redemption Ark and a scrawl to self that says; 'Writing is finding bad, destructive ideas and sacrificing them to Set.'
I don't feel headed in any particular direction, just opened up.
The first good thought I had all week was on Tuesday, when I walked outside with my dogs in the morning into a shower of yellow leaves, and it was a rare crossed wire between tao and America, on the day after Labour Day; the four seasons following each other in order. I finished my slow re-read of The Perpetual Train earlier, and recent attempts to learn stuff about culture make me think that it has the same origin story as Labour Day itself, but I first read it on a rail-trip south many years ago so anything is possible, anything.
Today the air was yellow and blue and grey, and I had to kill two hours after work before I could get back home so I went to the nearest thing I have to a local anything (a sushi bar near my workplace where they all know me by now) and read, and wrote. I write scenes in the morpho notebook - OF, about introverts in crowds in forgotten places. Not stories. And notes, stuff like obsessive commentary re. Redemption Ark and a scrawl to self that says; 'Writing is finding bad, destructive ideas and sacrificing them to Set.'
I don't feel headed in any particular direction, just opened up.