RandomWrites

if writing is the search for shape and meaning in life

is must be a selective one

the truth is full of distraction and laziness, napping in the face of urgency
forgetting oneself and remembering again and hiding from that truth

accepting maybe but celebrating nonsense?  what is self anyway these ais have me questioning
if i am a self or just generating text
there is some inner thing
but it varies 'i contain multitudes' indeed but many are quite prosaic and merely hungry

luckily friends remember
perhaps its why we want to be seen

Saturdays are for unwinding, expanding - my dad once said, the part that means you're human.  Yet for me now it still means typing on a keyboard, only typing things that spiral outward and don't have to pass tests.

Today I found Ngugi Wa Thiong'o on the library display shelves, and given that is where I discovered Gene Sharp, and the whole literature of protest and democracy movements, stopped to read him. He spoke of keeping humanity by writing a novel on toilet paper in a Kenyan jail (now Kenya does have democracy - there must be a story there) and struggling to maintain spirit and self-worth thru words.  Even outside of jail this need is universal, no?

I am glad that my project outside work, the what's cookin', is to help people express and connect, to create for each other.  No amount of consumer goods produced in efficient factories can fill this need.  Some of the modern sharing tech approaches it, but then turns around and uses it to manipulate the users.  I am so motivated, to keep going on the work because the entire approach I want to succeed - the shared ownership, decision making - the problem

i have become am becoming adept at exploring small spaces in small moments when time is short to climb a new mountain trail turn longing sharply right and down into nearby wash surprising a rabbit in its run desert broom pushing up through a rotten log I've never seen before

sand shoved tracks telling some mystery about chase and run exploring the space I am always confined in the grey folds inside and thinking about codes for opening spaces and aspects to let all the lonely potentials flower

I may not be judging this book fairly as a work of fiction - I wanted to read it because I had originally read the Rock and a Hard Place, the book published by "Pete", when I was about twelve, and had really gotten into it. I'd felt a bit betrayed when I found out it was a hoax, and remembered the note from "Dad" assuring readers that "Pete" was real. So I wanted the story behind that, how Maupin had been hoaxed too.

The Night Listener felt like yet another hoax, unfortunately, a lie about how a lie came to be. Because it didn't account for how the boy's book _was_ published, with a long foreward from Maupin assuring readers that it was real. Why did the real Maupin do that? Did he have doubts at that time, was he trying to help the boy, or did he know it was false and it was some sort of coldhearted calculation in this strange world of elephants? I feel a bit more let down at the end, that this book was again some fantasy for suckers, and nothing to do with whatever the real motivations were in the real story