Thursday, March 1, 2018

In High Places

The erraticism here has been, at least in part, due to sleeping problems. Again. 

I average about for typos for every sentence, sometimes more. I've never learned to type. All of this requires a lot of hunting and of course some peckering.

Jeff Beck is a better guitar player than Jimmy Page. 

You are welcome to do with that observation as you wish. 

I will be donating the proceeds to charity.

Okay, sometimes I like to do some light warmup before getting down to actual writing, where the nonsense is meant to fit into holes shaped for it. I always feel timed on this portion of the post. I like to set an hourglass next to my computer and flip it over at the end of every paragraph. If I get stuck on then I'm obligated to make an egg. 

Sleep issues, anxiety. They crush the will to live, the ability to be. Before last night I only slept about ten hours in the previous three days. It's not enough. It does strange things to a person, none of which are any good. 

The album to listen to concerning sleeplessness is Fever Ray. It will not help you sleep at all, or that is not its intention, I do not believe. 

Last night I had Seven hours of glorious, glorious in excelsis siesta.

I've been trying to escape news feeds lately, but technology likes me liking them. The problem for anybody that writes is that giving in to the impulse pushes you towards responding, which edges you further from expression and closer to the realm of reactionary trash, that of the purely temporary pleasures. It feels like good practice for writing. It can make for sharp sentences, but dull passages.

It's addictive, and all addictions speak the truth of immediacy. This suits the online format well, but it cripples the mind of the victim. Not surprisingly, many cures for addiction also focus on the preciousness of the moment. Giving some thoughtful care to the day rather than seizing it within your nostrils. 

I've been fighting it off, or trying to, by reading books. Fiction and literature mostly, but still I find myself creeping over towards collections of essays, polemics, political, and social stuff. Before I know it I'm back online rubbing myself up against some portentous journography. Always with a liberal bent - some politician getting textually gang-banged, surrounded by snarky quips all seeking a moist hole, some way in that the writer can move on to provide a clear view of the moment: recurring and sagacious penetration. 

I miss print journalism, you could turn the pages at your own pace when it made sense to do so, or you could just sit and stare, filled with wonder at all the lovely words glowing there on the page.

Afterwards, it makes one feel a bit ill, never quite wanting to participate again. 

I'll wake up from a nap and forget - the willing suspension of a disfigured fig leaf - and start scrolling away. Before I'm sure of what's happening my reading glasses are around my ankles and ... well, you know what happens after that: I read the first paragraph or two and it's all over, just as the subject was being undressed. I'm left pleased, but not satisfied. 

Everybody seems like they were told to look happy.