(no subject)

I've gotten so used to confession mode that I started typing what's been going on here. But everything going on here has been normal and needs no confessing. Nothing's ever felt as strange as this normal. I wonder how long it'll be before 'quiet, too quiet' becomes just quiet.

Not that some other awful thing can't happen. I wonder if sometimes you have to adopt gambler logic for survival purposes, need to think the world will let up on you for a while. Long enough to believe it really has.

Which would count as part of the Making of Religion. I read Nemesis when things were near their worst and found it entirely redundant - not in relation to Roth's other books but to my day, which is probably high praise of a kind. I'm not saying I came near religion, but I felt the need that reaches for anything.

Capitalize that as Anything and you're halfway to God.

I'm not entirely sure what Lennon meant by "a concept with which we measure our pain" but it must have been something like this. Feeling that gap between where you are now and that so little that you need, that minimum seemingly given to almost everyone else.

But that's the pre-God, John. The God's what might fill the gap. The stairs wildly hand-flapped into half-perceived being from air resistance.

(no subject)

...

14. The corporate office is alert at all times to anything that might enable employees in the field to gain control of their means of perception.

15. Where possible, perception is made to depend on traction from without, and by draining away what would fulfill into sparse, conditionally-opened enclosures.

16. Everyone at the corporate office died at the beginning of time.

17. Each employee encloses the potential fulfillment of some number of other employees.

...

22. Thus all conditions are met.

(no subject)

Wrote a tiny poem c. 1998-9, among my very first, with a deliberate grammatical error, of which I immediately disliked the H. Rider Haggardness but couldn't come up with a suitable replacement:

The shape of she
Escapes from me
When finally I find her

But she's the kit
That fashioned it
And knits a fit reminder

How could that best have been fixed? I've come up with nothing each time it's called back to mind. I know it's not much of a poem - and you can see how into rhyme I was - but it still tugs as unfinished business. "Her modality" is too long, "Her shape, you see" is superfluously chatty, etc.