I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Asiatic Anti-Venoms...
Man, you get so lazy - you don't really want to put the effort into telling imaginary people what you've been doing. If what I've been doing involved ninja swords, then I would definitely tell you. I get more enjoyment out of writing nonsense anyway. I only like reading journals of mass-murderers anyway, and they're usually so busy that they don't keep them.
I really need to get back to writing in notebooks.
All of this hi-tech Rosie The Robot stuff sucks more time and energy than the pen and good ol' paper. I'll let you read my books someday. They're all in the garage. I'll vomit them out in the publishing world someday.
Dr. Phil and The Da Vinci Code will stomp on my guts.
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