I’d rather not known*
What the traumatic rise of Whedon’s popularity tells us is there are more aspiring writers than we feel comfortable believing.
What we need to recognize in the
What we must heed
As crazy-sickening it is.
I know! But I don’t want to use dramatic. Why? I don’t know. I want:
Whedon’s sling-shot to mainstream acceptability—to have earned the trust of the machine—these disastrous things illuminate a key problem of our times. Beneath and before any other else is the sickening vomit choke of a sloppy ugly truth—we are all writers. The every last one of us. To our filthy yellow core and from our angry advancing greed. We, of us, all. WE ALL (piss on me jesus) are writers.
Be damned and bemoaned Be fucked and stay fucked and be fucked and stay fucked we are all writers here. here.
And fuck you for being such. Fuck you. Fuck. You. Fuck.
Manic driving fury. MANIC DRIVING FURY.
Fun and helpful
Chant chigata-chunk for an hour and tell me what it evolves into.
Tournament size domino
Diabolical!
Story’s knot—
over-ly tangled
against something
held steady…
Find your unintended experiment.
Yellow Clay doodle*
So … I’m going through five notebooks looking for the latest version of Yellow Clay because, apparently I never transcribed it. I couldn’t find an acceptable version, but found some interesting notes and this fun diagram I doodled out to help me get to know the darling.
The doodle that accompanied version 6 of Yellow Clay
For the grumpy Apricot*
fossilized raindrops
from a long time ago
Their craters remain
and I’m grateful for ’em