081818 I wonder if I can do my fifteen minutes with the following seaweed and kelp and muck hanging off my oars: - a hypnotic CD going on the stereo (Perlman & Petersen Side by Side) - a Macbook Pro keyboard that makes me want to shit beans of ire out my focking arse hole because every time you barely hit the corner of the adjacent key, it types it in addition to the target key I think I can, because remember: ALL IT HAS TO BE IS ANYTHING AT ALL THAT ISN'T PURE NONSENSE. That's like the cardinal rule. Even though EVERY SINGLE TIME, it takes me back to the “why” subroutine—like you know, why do we do this combination thought/action energy expenditure at all, this “thing” we call “writing”? And the answers are, as usual: - cuz it helps you focus and think through stuff - it focuses your attention - it feels good to type and see the letters appear - it’s rhythmic and good - it creates a readable program that can be run in your own or others’ brain - god I love this CD already. I can’t wait to hear it on the new speakers that I shouldn’t have bought. Every time I hear my new speakers, I’m going to hear the music plus also the sound of my bitchy self going, “You shouldn’t have bought that, you stupid fucker!” Da da da da da, right in rhythm with the music. If it’s a swingin jazz piece like this one, the underlying voice is going to be bitching me out with a swing rhythm, going “tch-t-tch, tch-t-tch” like scolding me with its tongue smack sounding like a damn hi hat. If it’s more of like a rock song, the bitching is going to take the form of the bass guitar, going “you suck, you suck” over and over in a repetitive loop like Sting holding down a Police song all light and airy and crisp and solid like they could only do in the 80’s when I didn’t have no credit cards and couldn’t just impulse buy a pair of speakers even if I’d wanted to. If it’s a classical piece, the bitching scolding voice of castigation is going to sound like a holy chorus, like the climax of Handel’s Messiah, only instead of being about Christ and stuff, it’s going to be all about my petty personal guilt. You get some really strong midrange out of a pair of speakers that’s had its drivers soaked in a good solution of guilt, despair, shame, squalor, and denying that we’re all going to die someday, and possibly someday really soon. TURN IT UP!!!! I do really like the CD, though. Definitely have to make a copy for mom. That’s a nice, normal, calm, joy-fruit-flavored thing to do. Share a CD. Just like back in the old days. I really like CD’s. They’re old enough to be superior, but not so old that just being quaint and old turns into more of a fuss than the purported benefit. In other words, I like them because they’re concrete and high quality and less shifty than online streaming shit, not because they’re fucking hipster artifacts. Although they may already be that, too, but fuck it. I also like the other accoutrements of the room: dart board that Libby won by writing an essay about why drugs are bad mmkay, fluffy Megan at the sewing machine doing something with some purple fabric and orange handled scissors, scattered conga drums, my cheap black “couches,” a cheap black ottoman (not the empire), my amish rocking chair that reminds of that bitch that used to rule my life but is still a pretty nice chair and (i like to think) retains a little bit of the little bit of good energy that remains from all of that, the quilt that rainbow Ruth quilted for any number of the girls, again, back from the time when the good parts were noticeable and far between and singing in the snow-caked forest like rare little finches and chickadees and parakeets even. That’s what the good times were like. Little evasive birds that you can hear and that sometimes you would see and that occasionally you could be right up next to, and then something would scare them and they would flit away. Until next time. You fill up all the feeders and mow the lawn and sit out there sometimes, and sometimes they come back, and you’re grateful for that. You can’t force them. You can just try to make a nice environment for them. Despite the fact that sometimes your cat takes a bite of them, oh well, whoops.