January 23, 2013

Woke from one of my rare overtly sexual dreams. Went with a couple of buddies to a sex club, where different themes were developed in different areas. We bought cokes and got naked and all, but the action seemed to be thin and invariably at some distance from where we were, like a zoo where all the animals are way up in the rocks. There as some contact, but it was more about lying around on blankets in cold, modernist architecture. You’d think sex would be better in a dream.

Watching DVDs of the TV show Fame, wondering at its awfulness, recognizing that it awfulness comes from falseness, as much awfulness does. Not one emotion or situation or “valuable life lesson” is genuine, but rather what one was “supposed” to see and feel. If I could bother to obtain the discs, I would show it to my classes as a demonstration of how intention–rigid intention, anyway-- damages creation.

Got my green Holiday Crunch shirt from the Y, my third. All in the t-short drawer is well.

This is the demon keyboard. I can’t type a sentence without 2 or 3 typos, typos which I swear I have not made, but it has. There, whatever I typed, the keyboard rendered it as “typsos.”

Brief quarrel with a magazine about “hard” editing of a story they will publish, and in fact gave a prize to. They’re actually right, but the sense of ambush and futility doesn’t wash away with the mere recognition that things are well. I think the sadness comes when you sense the Muse has misled you, though of course you must blame it on somebody else.

“Ellse” my keyboatd typed. My “keyboatd” typed. I swear it is not me.


JS in Capetown says Amazon is giving The Sun in Splendor away free. I sigh and decide to let it be.