Well if anyone reads my blog, they will soon come to understand, that all of this nonsense is about keeping my obsessive postmodern-mind on track, at least with writing. But truthfully I’ll come clean to the scanning eyes: writing has never been a problem for me. I’ll talk about why writing (not editing) comes so natural for me in about five years.
But first things first, what the hell is a blog anyway? I really don’t like that word, the word “blog”. Isn’t a blog really just a website? I used my data gathering skills and looked up all this information about the word blog, and I read through the endless single page of what a blog is said to be. But still, even after wasting my time with that boring dribble, I thought to myself: what the hell does any of this dog talk mean? What a blog is defined as sounds more made-up than the words that I type on this old Royal Administrator; a typewriter that I finally got to work, only in caps, after bending the hammers into their correct places. The old man of a typin machine, that ol Royal who thought he retired from the admin, well he vibrates the whole table when it’s on, because it was made in nineteen seventy-seven or something, the same year that the first Star Wars Film came out. But yeah, so….
Scattered on this post are some actual photographic evidence of the black smoke I’ve become, while just like every day, I’ve been working on and off all day, with only a couple of people distractions and social obligations I attended.
I’m listening to classical music and out of nowhere Bob Dylan just came on, which shouldn’t be in the classical section on my computer’s library, or yeah, maybe it should be. But I wasn’t expecting to hear Bobs voice, and he’s singing the words Desolation and Row. I’m not bothered like I would be if I was using the computer though, that old folk man’s voice doesn’t distract me like voices usually do, because I’m in the zone.
Right now as I type, Bob Dylan’s voice is just another instrument that I type and hum and tap-tap away to, as if all these sounds are just singular aspects of the symphony of my own typin’ soundtrack. What I’m saying is really simple: I’m in that writing zone. Blinders; I can only see words.
And honestly, I’m so happy typing on this machine and watching my ideas come out on the physical roll of paper, stationary that I found at a thrift store for three dollars. A stack of typin’ empty bullets; a stack of printable-paper that stands almost three-feet tall; a bunch of paper that I feel was sent to me by some alien species. I don’t honestly believe that. But it makes for a much better waking dream. A better blogging tale if you will.
I just love writing without a screen. I don’t get distracted, never bored, and I’m never careless with time management. With the typewriter I never worry about checking my face-book, or the constant flood of shit-mail that comes from somewhere invisible and into my illusionary mail box I’m often told it’s urgent, it never is.
Somewhere in these words that I’ve already written is the reason, the reason why my posts are discussing the update and progress that I’m making with the publication and marketing of my books. I’m really only discussing mere abstractions of the writing process. And really, this blog is only a pad of paper full of my notes, and well, maybe this will be interesting to an invisible person that likes words and writers and reading what is on a writer’s invisible mind, my mind.
The point of this blog is writing, which is really about human life. This BLOG is a journal of sorts, and it’s distracting me and often reminding me of the high standards that I’ve set for myself, and at the same time I’m still trying to figure out this society that is made up out of the human species, beings that are the same as what I am, people that I write about and for and LIVE amongst.
This exit stop in the middle of nowhere, this BLOG-thing, is about love and those real things in life, physical things that you can eat, and yes, if I choose to, well yeah, I can eat everything on this table, including the words that I’m printing right now; these words that right now, later, now; words that I’m transferring NOW into the devil-computer that is named TOSHIBA COBALT BLUE. I should say I’m sorry, to TOSHIBA COBALT BLUE (my computer) because I must admit that this small computational machine has been very kind to me, often working more hours that to most minds within the human species thought were counted to make up the rotation of any given single day.
But this conversation will stop here. I’ve got to go back to editing of some circled words on this list, a list of fonts and errors that is somewhere on this paper mountain that is born on the hillside of an old dining room table.
I will post part two before, no; I will post the rest when I wake up at nine in the morning, which is tomorrow, after I go to bed. All this back and forth confusion means I’ve been such a passionate insomniac lately. Sleeping for me these days really means listening to the wind’s voice use the last of its cold air to turn my poor naked feet blue.
Anyway, and so it goes.