Occasionally, in my most purple of moments I wonder if there is some imaginal realm out there for all the ill-formed and forgotten books that time has forgotten. A corner of the unreal where these dreams still have some existence, even if their plots are dangling out of their seams and they use far too many expressive’s.
I imagine some infinitely patient caretaker, still tending these half-formed things like the scraggy and ancient Lavender that I keep alive in my garden. It might be kinder to uproot it, but a part of me hopes that it might yet produce flowerstalks.
I was planning to write a (probably) very long ramble on the culture war, but you, Delicious Reader, have been saved from that fate by the words of Dr. Ellis, writing on Morning, Computer [I always want to put an ‘!’ at the end of that, because it reads in my head retrofuture-y, the family Robinson waking up cheery and radium-filled before they realize that they live at the tyranny of machine intelligence. Which is not a reflection on the content, obvs. Anyway…]
Try this, for a minute. Try to describe your experience of how your brain works. Think of a metaphor that works for you. Then describe your experience of the thing that stops it working. Explain your brain to yourself. It’s a good way to surface the problems, and perhaps the ways to solve them. The inside of your own head is really pretty amazing in ways that are unique to you. Even the annoying or “bad” parts. Sit and breathe and watch it go, and then paint a picture of it with words. That’s all we do, here in hermit country. Paint with words. Sit down next to me.
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When that story is trying to zig and you really want it to zag…