I am writing endlessly endlessly about the act of interpreting, apparently so complex and tricky it requires no less then four thousand, two hundred and ninety four words each week to capture the experience. I use lots of formatting to make it look fancy and intersperse my writing with games of solitaire to alleviate my boredom. I turn in the same words every week, painstakingly rearranged, all the thousands of them.
But it is time to get ready for work now.
I worked late last night, busy busy Friday, and slept late into the day. Finally, I jerked myself painfully out of REM sleep and walked around pink like skin under a scab, something not ready to be exposed to the waking world. In my dream, I became aware I was dreaming, spoke frankly of this knowledge but still struggled to negotiate my reality as if all these creations were not of my own making. I dreamed I failed the QE, that pipes broke and water fell, that people could not be cajoled to make sense all in a sparse and unsatisfying landscape. It is not only beauty we crave. Discomfort, ugliness and sorrow are nourishing and even better, are reliable. I dream about sign language among other things.
I have been livejournaling in total privacy. When I was nine-ish years old wrote a story about two little girls, one of whom finds passage into a photograph and into a world where pictures were habitable, contained dimension. Looking back now it seems perhaps best to write in that she takes up photography... my character, who discovers this entrance does so when she backs up against the wall where hangs a picture of a ship at sea and find the back of her head wet. Maybe she should step forward sputtering and coughing up salt water. It is a whole ocean after all. But I digress. Why am I livejournaling anyway, why in total secrecy?
I am still untangling all my nervous reasons.
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