it's disjointed

Words do seem meaningless. I regurgitate. After chewing on a character's observation of her inner workings I adopt her fragmentation. Doris is Anna; Anna becomes Ella then Anna, and so I become a regurgitated shard of mirror reflecting; Hopeless cycles. War. Violence. Inexplicable yearning for love. Cold, detached analysis. Detachment, and drifting.

Doris Lessing was what, 45 yrs old when she published her Golden Notebook in 1962.

Let me do a quick search... no, 43. She was about my age when she finished it then, late 30s.

And it's been 46 hrs since then. The themes are still relevant / prevalent.


The inertia is building again. I have to keep moving. A moving target is harder to hit, but who is hunting me? A cruel, mechanized world? Hardly, I am that mechanized world. Who am I hunting then?

Back in Deutschland

here I am. Back

it's 2008. The future already.

I finished the Diamond book, Guns, Germs & Steel.

I am now engrossed in The Golden Notebook. Maybe its just the right time. Older enough. Still think I could be some sort of artist, although I haven't done anything.

It's really not a crime if you are not creative, but think you are. You can go blithely on your way creating generic works of utmost triviality. You are a GENIUS!

However, when you've realized that you have no talent, but you keep pretending that you do, then a criminal you become. There's no crime in creating junk, just as long as you realize it's junk.

I will start another blog. A fiction blog. I am inspired by Anna Wulf's made-up journal of an American in Europe. I will create a made up blog of an alien on Earth.