So I’m reading the seriously brilliant and crazy-as-fuck Locus Solus, and I come across the adverb “gently,” but it’s used as an adjective: “The gently breeze cut my face to smithereens,” or something like that.
So fine. I thought, “how elevated that is…nice writing.” Nothing, by the way, could dampen my enthusiasm for this book. I’m in awe of this author.
So I continue reading and sure enough, another adverb has been assigned the duty of being an adjective. Then I remember that this is a translation, so this charming affectation may actually be just some sloppy translation.
I shall have to get the original French version and check it out.
Locus Solus is so brilliant, it actually feels like it’s getting warm as I’m reading it. I savor everything about it. It’s slow going. I’m fine with reading slowly, especially when the writing is like this.
I don’t know. The only evidence is the memory of a pair of RayBan Wayfarer sunglasses, which makes me think this memory was really a dream because I never wear the Wayfarer pair anymore, so it stands to reason that I wouldn’t have been thinking about them except in some fabulous manner, which dreams sometimes are.
I still like the look of Wayfarer sunglasses, but the tiny screws that keep the – do they call them arms? – work themselves loose, which I suppose is fine, but it erodes my confidence in not only the eyewear, but in myself as well. There seems to be a correlation: the looser the hinge of the arms, the skulkier I become. I slouch and am indecisive.
I have a meeting at school today. I don’t want to go. I have to go.
Donald Trump’s voice has taken over too much of my life. How do people able to remove themselves from him? He’s the president so he’s always there.
That’s right. Those things with the lace and stiffness and the constriction and the whole attitude of these things; the innocent pomposity; the thing that advertises itself as a refuge for privilege; this affectation of perceived power; this liberator; this symbol of ultimate truth; this conduit toward ultimate knowledge.
It’s gonna be fun.
You know what? Self doubt sucks. What was I thinking about “angles” anyway? What a stupid idea that was.
Not all of it was stupid, just the part where I made “angles” the focus of the impetus of the story.
It was actually a self-doubt kind of thing, angles. I imaged writing from a female perspective without actually knowing much about females beyond that they breathe air and they’re smart and they often smell sweet, overly sweet actually, but you can’t blame people for what scents they choose, and they’re often superior negotiators and wield power in a no-nonsense fashion.
So imagining that a woman would choose “angles” or their lack thereof as the focus of her displeasure with the world is very very very stupid, and reductive to a really horrible extent. Horrible I say.
But you know what? Writing these little “things” in the morning is turning out to be clarifying. I feel I’ve grasped a corner of a direction just from writing this. I can discard what doesn’t work without flogging myself and eating multiple loaves of bread and butter hoping that I’ll land myself into a carbohydrate stupor and I’ll just have to dive into the bed.
The chapter I’ve been working on for three months is gone. Good riddance!
I saw a girl yesterday on the corner near where I live. She was sitting on an overwrought bus bench covered in ceramic mosaic patterns. It appeared as if this girl were homeless, and she had a Bible opened to about a third of the way through. And she stared across the intersection by this new taco place that looks like it’s going to be delicious. I don’t think she was thinking about tacos. More than likely she was contemplating the punishment she would mete out to whatshisname or his female counterpart from what? Three years ago? Twenty years ago? The initiating act was probably just a garden variety misunderstanding, just a misplaced word or even a glance dropped at the wrong moment. It might have been ignored and the world would have moved on blissfully unaware. But this slight has grown to biblical proportions by now. And the levers of retribution, maintained by true believers, stand at the ready.
Good morning. I already ate my two hard-boiled eggs. Ha ha…I just spelled “egg” with one ‘g’ and it looked like this: “eg.” But don’t fret, I was saved by the autocorrect, who’s always looking out for me. But here’s my question: Is Donald Trump really, really that stupid?
sorry, but I have it pretty good. I found myself comparing my horrible first-world problems, which are mostly just variations on the theme of privileged angst, to a homeless guy whose shopping cart overflowing with collected recyclables overturned and spilled all over a section of the sidewalk that blocked an alley. Of course a car just appeared as if by magic, the driver demanding to know the meaning of this temerity of just being there, while the homeless guy scrambled to clean up the mess and allow the driver free passage.
And after witnessing this, I confided to my terrier Duffy, I know how that guy feels. Duffy just said fuck you, you have no idea.
He’s right. I have no idea.