For various complicated reasons, there are doughnuts this morning.
I, newly awake, pick one up and examine it closely. "Chocolate frosted doughnuts with colored sprinkles look like they were designed by Milton Glaser," I observe.
"He must have been a Doughnut Glaser," Patrick replies.
I need more coffee.
Yesterday: my first flight with my hands and feet on the controls of the plane, v. cool.
Today: my first third-degree burn, small but distinctly charred.
Am now having a quiet night at home, working on manuscripts while keeping an eye on my hamster's antics. Feels like real life to me.
Yetanother meme: take a song, run it through Babelfish, from English to Italian to French to German, then back into English again. So:
I will with TV on the bell with a pain sleep, which a another go week be, and as my light regard spend be, and where it be, that the real thing go I ask a man try advise it say in former times and he it twice say have; My life is a delimitation, which met it long from damage hard over tests me changed over a map, which read: It lived the work as you in the days in projection of a better work than nation, how you lived in the days in projection of a better play than nation, which still co-ordinate! I have it cried am abyss, and gone the answered volume, but, while they examined slowly by the hands, he remembered that that him give to let blow had and him to give licks the name of air places the clay bricks me in feet outside of Albert Corridor held and has plant and written on the wall; The work, when it lived you in the days in projection of a better nation, how you live in the days in projection of a nation that better we take the water at the so-called tree now we make to me the same take your sweat, as digging the art there purely a groove for the human heart garden of please are less than cleared day, or the night them to its life the whole life does not leave to wish over to sense vacation their whispering, if comes too contacted, and if I creep between the sheets, it I legend; The work as you it lived in days in projection of a better work than nation, like you it lived days in projection of a better nation.
Colors, explosions, speed, characteristic replicating phrases, informing structure, Sacred Harp, history, botany, expository theory, fibonacci numbers, thou my love singing in the wilderness, bodging, Middle English, flathead-6 engines, American rivers, material culture, real economics, fairy dusters and acacias, interesting garbage, flavor combinations that can't be modeled in advance, citrus, gestures, hamsters, rocks, the names of obscure rhetorical maneuvers, saints, semiautomatic weapons, and the almighty word which was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, amen.
And more besides.
I'd like this better if it weren't called a journal. It sounds too personal. My manifest willingness to shoot my mouth off about my experiences and opinions evaporates as soon as I'm the nominal topic of conversation.
I caught the virus from Womzilla. It goes:
Grab the nearest book.
Open the book to page 23.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the text of the sentence in your journal...
...along with these instructions.
If the men are darker, it is pastes in slender strings they'll eat, or tubes, always farinaceous, as the dictionary says; but more often on Anglo-Saxon fare the potato takes place before any foreign macaroni or spaghetti.
I do not feel Quixotic. You have to put on old ill-fitting armor, and read Tirant lo Blanc, and ride around Spain being severely eccentric. My life is complicated enough already.