Writing is painful

http://dragossorinnicula.ro/writing-commandments/

Miller’s Writing Tips

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Today in words turns out to be imagery with

The help of (insert your favorite possessive pronoun here)
Favorite image-capturing moment-manipulating devices avec filters and
Cropping suggestions
IMG_0239

“…but she thought wrong!”

cropped-screen-shot-2012-02-11-at-11-45-36-pm.jpgWonder Woman (2011-) #20 – DC Entertainment

Wonder Woman (2011-) #20 – DC Entertainment.

Wonder Woman was certain there was one person in her life she could trust–but she thought wrong!

Savior faire is everywhere!

@10frenchwords: connaître la musique – to know the story

Thanks Don Draper for leading me to this amazing page! Touts alors! (I forget what that means exactly, I just like how it sounds! Zut, zut!!!

https://twitter.com/10frenchwords/status/328997207011389441

Re-entry

What would Carlos Castenada have to say about this situation, or how would Henry Miller express it to June, or what would be the koan that should be asked at this very instant? Like a flower field, call this number, $ 1 million for life.

This is my life right now: it wasn’t as hot as I thought it would be today; I forgot about the omnipresence of billboards next to burnt, broken palm fronts; Seinfeld is on. My favorite part is when Kramer makes him think that it was his idea and then (always) asks, ‘Well, then what you go and do that for?’

We make our exit, the air crisps up, the train sucks us under, the earthquake rumble under the bed a thing of the past by about 6 hours now, emerge and walk by the freeway, deja vu of a movie partially responsible for said image of the place and subsequent inevitability provided by a landscape bespoken, as they tend to be, by those who croon, ‘too much walking/shoes worn thin’ while waiting to disappear. Time to wait too long

…most people …

…most people didn’t experience ‘the sixties’ until the seventies.

– Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending

What is home

Packing up, again, except you can’t really even call it ‘packing.’ I am going through relics of my past collected in boxes in my mother’s attic. I have been crying a lot today, wishing I wasn’t here dealing with the fact that my life is more disappointment than victory and the fact that all I am can really be summed up as contributing to the 400-level carbon dioxide death ceiling that gives every one of us 25 years to life to live in this bubble of post-Pilocene wasteland of ignored warnings, idiotic leadership and evil running rampant with the rest of our time here on this gloriously beautiful, breathtaking and soul-sustaining place we call home, the earth.

Yet, I have no ‘home’ as is considered by any definition of my peers who have mortgages, are complaining about sending kids to college and mowing their lawns, using round-up on their weeds. Oh, to have their problems. I have very little, certainly no real estate, certainly no ‘family’ other than my parents, who adopted me. I am truly, on my best days, a free agent, on days like today, having major existential doubt.

It’s raining, the trees are blowing, I must get back to sorting thru the bullshit of my past.