I woke today...

I woke today... I find the circumstance funny whereby the blog, supposedly a sort of journal... At the onset, when it was "invented", the blog was supposed to be, was intended to be a sort of journal ; and it doth indeed seem to turn its tide more and more that way as I age. A wayward blog, yet a blog like any other blog, distantly, circuitously finding its way through me at length ? Could be...

But whether be or not be, I still woke today, and stretched, and wroteⁱ, and then readⁱⁱ and then...

I poured myself some coffee, I guess, and went out on the balcony, surveying thence the endless, lush tropical green spreading itself in all directions as if the tropics weren't lines, and demarcations, and delineations, as if tropical forest gives way to temperate forest to in turn give way to desolate nothing just like that, singingly and dancingly, neutrally and naturally and with no rule underneath. It just happens, coincidental coincidence, and if it were you instead of him you'd have done the same thing. Wouldn't you have had ?

The coffee is cold-brewed, there's a complicated selection of pots which get post-it tabs for management & general keeping track, which tabs are bought at a special store selling a remarkable disarray of nothing you ever imagined could be traded for money, especially if you, like me, never much set foot in "an office setting", except perhaps to raid it of its any cherries accidentally fallen in. I use it (the coffee, I mean) in cvasi-pharmaceutical dosingsⁱⁱⁱ, swimming in a sea of milk ; I sit with it, and a selection of tiny confectionery chocolates. Coffee beans toasted to perfection, such that they melt in the mouth that bites them, drawn in fine dark chocolate. Toasted almonds, drawn idemly. Coconut, macademia nut, here we go naming nuts. You name 'em, I got 'em, lined afore me, with my coffee, with the view. I sit and I sip ; I sit and I look ; I sit and I nibble.

Then there's a stirring, and I suppose I'm going to have my previous article read viva voce, why not. See what happens, as it were, once she takes it in her mouth, whomever she may be. Buh-by.

1. I write very much like a bodily function ; I wake up with a bladder full of urine and a different bladder full of thoughts and ideas, threads spun while I "slept", butter churned out of who knows how many different pots just as busily (if not moreso) worked during rest as during wake.

   I wake up to this enduring competition, is urinary tract urgency such as to preclude writing first, or can it wait enough ? Generally it can, though perhaps over the years that generally's been ever so slightly losing ground... [↩]

2. Re-read, mostly. Old articles, references and lateralia... I went through the closure once more, irked by recent commentary, driven by curiosity principally, but... it is whole and rotund. Complete. It stands as it finds itself just fine and I've naught more to add.

   I tend to re-read articles that recently came up for some reason or another, I sometimes follow their references, sometimes I leave on a tangent even, but... might as well say it, I suppose : definitely over the years the tangents' appeal has greatly dimmed. I am well aware, as I was years ago, that a literary world indeed exists past Trilema, that there's letters without as there's letters within. It's true ; the problem, though, is that the rurals, the deplorables outside the gates, the Cervantes and Shakespeares of this world are so hit and miss, so occasionally fulgurantly exceptional but then unremarkably acceptable throughout... If one were to choose just the Ravens among 70 poems, 66 short stories, nine essays, one completed and two half-written novels, one play and a few dozen reviews (you read all this already, by the way ?) one might have something worth the mention, but reality doesn't quite work this way, and besides : one then does choose the Raven (not by accident, of course, but by wit and wisdom and knowledge aforethought), and then one fixes it and then... how's the pale original to compare with the perfected copy ? My favourite read of Poe consists of an article on Trilema just as everything Musina ever did worth the mention is here, not in his hands, not that you're in any danger to ever have heard of him ; and as time goes by and this selected excellence, blessfully abridged of the crap and greatly expanded and enhanced in the meat ever develops... how, what and why would I do out in the fields, where the beasts bray their primitive thoughts through their unworked noiseboxes ? [↩]

3. Cold brew is extremely strong, but also not in the slightest bitter, it extracts I would say my absolute favourite fraction of the goat-blessed bean. [↩]