it occurred to me just a few moments ago, that typing tales, although much more glamorous in a dim room with high trousers and a typewriter, is about my favorite thing to do. A lady like myself, if she had a pair of trousers, say, a pair with thin suspenders and a tall glass of water, typing in her flat in a humid city, or the flat of her working friend, perhaps in honor of that friend's window sill, with a record pounding softly in the background against city noises somewhat below, would be quite thrilled, enough to modify a stern expression, to get a breeze from the open window with white fabric rustling in its wake.
1. one must start from the beginning, in order to keep order. this goes for thought processes, and processes of other sorts.
2. she must be religious about some book, theory, or thought process; the way my grandmother is about the honest principles of not living with boyfriends and how smashing it used to be to soiree with celebrities while wearing gloves.
3. i have had a series of strange dreams as of late, and my diagnosis is that: i am content.
4. (further, i am starting to believe that if it weren't for roads, we'd all live in a paradise of sidewalks in the jungle, or forest, or plain. i support this. )
5. today, i am desperate for a thoughtful, bold read. And to have the darkest of eyebrows.
6. for these daydreams to be validated, i would have to leave my typewriter for worldly pleasures, and by now, as i'm already to eight, so there may be no leaving. this is a realization like the formers.
7. i would like to make a table of theories and though processes, like a chart of how you make intangible things, which might matter to certain cultures and be meaningless to the next.
8. before that ever happens, i'll read a good read, and do a few jobs and chores. i will cite them and complain about them and daydream in lists.
