Some days the mojo simply isn’t there. I’ve been writing a lot (of pantaloons and felafel-based metaphors) and it’s getting to me. I feel a bit like a performing seal. And yet it’s me who put me here. In my own small way I’ve been reaching out a bit further than usual to try and get non-friends to read. React. Respond. I know how hard it is to read some of my words sometimes (hell, how do you think it feels writing them) — too many backflips and dead ends and pun-nerisms.
Tcha. Beans. I’ve been trying to get my headspace into gear. It seems that people generally like the nonsense more than the emo-lit, so I’ve been quietly shelving Tom I and trying to summon up enthusiasm for Tom II. But I don’t know if I’m simply doing a Lucas and shooting things out of sequence. I’ve got the basic stories for Toms I through VII. I just lack the discipline to get past 0 at the moment. Tom II is also my homage to Kafka and Gibson, which is somewhat harder to live up to than Tom I, which is just my dad. Tcha, indeed.
I’m probably just tired. I was contacted today by the guitarist in the best band I was in (Endless Drone, yes, we were marketing genuises) — someone I’ve heard from twice in thirteen years. Which was pretty cool. Sometimes you should really focus on cool. And not on targets.
Anyway. I dare say normal service will be restored tomorrow. Hell, I may even do something about the sidebar. Or the other hundred chores I have to do around this place. Tomorrow is another day.
In other news, I wrote my own version of Little Fluffy Clouds today. I’m very pleased. Particularly with the malevolent tape spool noise. Sometimes life is all about the malevolent. Or is it the magnificent? I forget.…
