The last year or so was obviously a blur. Everyone talks about it: blur, blur, blur. The lobes of my brain feel like the carcasses of frogs run over by tanks driving side-by-side to some far off artillery range.
I haven’t read anything in most of this time and I feel this is in direct connection to the feeling that art has left me; I’ll never make it again and, even worse, the ability to write about this lost lover also feels forever gone.
Then something happened today in the fog of a very fucked travel plan that extended a 10 hour trip to 41 hours: I casually started reading through some technical things, some interesting things, some things of pure fiction. What I stayed away from was the internet. And shows. And endless chumbuckets.
I haven’t read anything in most of this time and I feel this is in direct connection to the feeling that art has left me; I’ll never make it again and, even worse, the ability to write about this lost lover also feels forever gone.
Then something happened today in the fog of a very fucked travel plan that extended a 10 hour trip to 41 hours: I casually started reading through some technical things, some interesting things, some things of pure fiction. What I stayed away from was the internet. And shows. And endless chumbuckets.
I can feel a small ribbit in my brain, and I wonder how easy it is to let culture be a school that only teaches something like mathematics by rote: forgetting the army of ones that make up a prime like 7.
If not approached carefully, YouTube will take all nuance out of my day.