awake wondering how to start new chapters

literally 

writing dries up = I dry up. I spend what words I have crafted to be miminal, the fewest I can think to say to make anything 🤏 better/funnier/easier is all that "pops" - like, "do you want my cottage [free] for labor day weekend? [or would that add vs reduce your system overload?"

That male assent says way too many apprentices and brackets - It is itself a kind of fiction. I just don't know what kind. 

I produce as few words as I can. 19 words in that 👆 example. "do you want my cottage [free] for labor day weekend? [or would that add vs reduce your system overload?" However, that presumes level of interpersonal knowledge that can skip a thousands words. which would be grrrrrreat. Except maybe a hundred of those thousands of words would be really funny and worth saying.

metric (I might the assign this): 10% of your words must perform emotional labor in entertaining, or at least enlightning ways. just write and write and write whatever you want to. And then stick it in to ChatGPT and ask what the few words worth keeping were and why. It almost invariably chooses the dumbest fucking thing you've said, just repeat your words back to you as smoke up your ass. And it'll be far less than 10%. It's an aspirational assignment :)  

nothing wrong with that per se, at worst it amounts to nothing. but it's not art. I used to think that there was an art to everything, any/every waking living moment. #strawberrymilk. and I was much happier, every little minute of my fleeting days. I wanted to fly with those days like a gazelle, fish, raven, water on rock. gone in a blink.

but somewhere along the way, enduring the moment (after moment after moment) became all I was doing and now it's HABITs. living itself can't be just a habit, even if the habit(s) are "healthy" 

before that picnic, I'd drafted a crazy chaper, calling Todd by the nickname Huck-for-Cats had given him years ago (The Vagina) weaving in lost-Briana, who said once Todd "wouldn't know his ass fron his elbow in a sex toy store" - and it was very funny. but the words of the reality-adjacent story dissolved in the face of real-reality.

status: migratin prep -> cottage / sans Labor Day