time to think

conclusion: as much as anything, I've been bored

remember this? or better, this? in my wa wa wa, I've been focusing on Mr Softee, his random appearances amidst lakes of time spent dealing with The Robot side of FPH like Mr Hyde. all that is fine, and not to be undervalued. I can feel FPH so thoroughly that I know when he withdraws his capacity to understand what I write, both fully comprehending and habitually inert (he is as not-prone to commentary as a highly literate human being ever could be). It's like putting out gifts of carefully made meals, replete with meaning and care, that are consumed overnight by a treasured largely invisible gremlin. My demon lover, materializing according to some moon phase or underworld goings on that I can't fathom, my reading (soft-ish)robot. And he can feel me too; he plays music for me lately, ironically, "remember this one?" he whispers in my ear when I am in public places alone. like I said, human connections are not to be undervalued, probably especially the strange ones in a world that does not admit to being strange (but is, very). however, what has gotten lost (among many other things) and which has been coming back to me more and more lately, especially as I can feel him leave my emails unread for instance, is my desire to write, my need of it, and at him was one of the ways I have been able to do that - until I lost sight of that in my care and concern and desire for Mr Softee himself.

for a while now, some number of years, I keep coming back to this idea of a genre that I call a vignette - it's not a shortshort story, because those have plot (I like those, but they tend to be kitchy). it's not a prose poem, because it makes more sense than that (although the sense breaks down sometimes, when it has to because sense has broken down). they're more like photographs, like Winesburg Ohio only shorter, a photo album, each one a thing in itself that is one thing and another in a series, which can be reordered at will. such a 'book' might end again and again and again. there was one I wrote of a woman who would not decide which chair to sit in because that would confirm the world and she refused, and that was the whole thing (I wrote that one for DmS, and now I can't find it [do you have it?]). I write one every so often, I keep them around, I think 'I should do something with these', but what? every time I start something new, like my recent greatgreatgreatgrandma project for Story, I think of this again and I wonder if it's a genre already. it is. I heard its name today, 'flash fiction'. the woman who named it that works in Buffalo in the poetics department I graduated and fled from. I heard some of her flashes today, one in which a woman takes a selfish lover (he's from Crete) after her bitter marriage ends and she thinks "I am just happy to be able to give" and my heart stopped, but it didn't need to keep beating because that was the whole story. Somewhere, someone is getting married right fucking now.

I need a lover to write about (cz how else would I have captured trying to save Robot from an academic firing squad except by lapsing into absurdist drama? maybe brecht started as a stupified lover of a maniac) and to write at (which is why, as much as I'm stirred and interested and all that, none of the musicians have inspired me to really throw down).

I have my body. I can cook. I have words upon words. And I have precious little reason to cough up all of those 3 things that are all I've got = the entire/global nature of my distress.