There are days when the ideas fly around in my head. Then, there are times when I feel like I’ve deadened the synapses from TV bingeing that conjuring les mots for a healthy hearty textual diagram is like rewiring a transistor radio with soggy ramen. When that sort of thing happens, it’s helpful to just unplug the noisy screens and reconnect myself back to The Words On The Paper.
Locked away in a room is an infinite number of typewriters and a chimpanzee. Given enough time, it might figure out how to type banana. Given even more time, it might figure out how to self-publish or argue competently for an agent.
This looks like a job for Acid Rock! To the Bevis Frond, Robin.
Speaking of music that can be classified as weirdly, I saw a performance the other night by a UK Steampunk band called The Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing. Never mind the goggles, the Men rocked a pretty loud and hard set and my ears are still ringing. So if you happen to find them in your town, hide the porridge and give them your bucks because they’re pretty fucking fantastic. Also on the bill was Frenchy and The Punk so what all that means is that music was well served that night.
The new job has continued and it’s still rather strenuous. The other day, a lady confessed to me that she had just had a C-section and shouldn’t be out walking, which she had done to get to the store with her guy (who was buying some pleasant malt liquor). It’s the people you meet sometimes that reminds one that we lived in a very fucked up world.
Sleep well, my pretties.