(no subject)

They keys go click-clack. They have a mass & a substance about them that gives you confidence, as if you were typing into a stone tablet. That's the way. There is an amount of steel in the keyboard, an amount of complex mechanisms that make the keys sing as you type, they are never stuck and always spring back with a bracing alliterative noise consonant, consonant, consonant, the quick reedy staccato of the backspace & the brisk bass of the spacebar pressed twice. This sentence is over, says the spacebar, rewarding you. All very satisfactory.

I treat myself a little, just a little - a nice keyboard is a necessity no? I should ask for a nicer chair - everyone here has so far, but I don't care for a nice chair - I want an office with a door. That's my request. A door, I hope to have one soon. But these are matters of bare significance! Tedious reflections on the matters closeby and nearhome - the irrelevant details that coincide to make the momentary experiences. In memory, pastiche - a flowing montage of scenes, and here I typed on my expensive keyboard and was gratified by it. Mechanical keys


Oh it's just that lately there have been long & empty hours - that's the nature of it- or anyway there are many components that make a formula. I know this, having volunteered to do rudimentary chemistry now. But practice- that makes perfect, no believer in talent am I - practice makes perfect. Perfect makes boring though. Once you've got the techniques down cold once you know with certainty how to do the things you're meant to do - they become rote & flavorless, a simple task easily performed pushed out as a completed work in easy seconds. Or else there are progress bars. Practice makes perfect unless you're a computer - in which case practice makes for wear & tear and required routine maintenance.

Not that I mind. I'm famous for not minding. I'm famous for being easy. See, my president made me this. He is a sweet man and good.


But here it is - you know, I started in on things - big things, it's spring & my hands woke up, my blood pumped and I got inspired up&down to do good things until I'm great at them. And so there's the flurry of production followed by the sudden chill in the air - the jet-stream not quite done being an Asshole. So it cools off, and there are sharp breezes and these are snatchers of ambition. What's the use of trying (say the cold winds blowing) It'll be winter again. (They tell you, in your bones & sinuses). It'll be winter, also you are dying, give up on doing anything. (That's the song of the old cruel wind from out of the northwest - the wendigo's breath!)

Tonight I wont' go to my game. I'm quitting that game. The insufferable old woman with no social graces & the troubled & alienated hobo that started to come - they've put me off. Playing with the public - running for the public. Here's the cruelty of imagination - for some it's a rote escape from dreary realities (oh, they say, I'll be this way that I can be in the rulebooks about imagination, I'll be a marginally superior version of myself as reproduced by crummy archetypes) and these people compare to us, the others (saying - physical laws are a chore & the burden of history is a futile embarrassment to all involved - let us then conquer god by producing a better world & with better people in it). And these two stripes of folk who are limited by the limits of the world, and those who are limited by the limits of the self - we have a lot to talk about and then we don't. I guess. I guess. But really, the truth is, Charisma is the most important stat and when people dump CHA - they get nowhere.