Random thoughts time.
Am I the only person who remembers that the Harry Potter theme sounds awfully like the Witches of Eastwick one?
Job's being more jobby than usual. You'd think people who have a vested interest in keeping me around would give me reason to do so.
I've got my Origins plans down for the most part. Funny thing is, someone's moving down from Ohio this week, and I'm going to be going right back up at the end of the month. Go fig. It's like pi all over again.
For some reason, I've been thinking about poetry lately. Not any one in particular, just the random crap that we're forcefed in school because TS Eliot would scare the crap out of small children. Like so much else, we're fed pap instead of quality because the tall people think kids can't deal with death. I guess pulling bugs apart as toddlers is for the insects' health.
No, the good poetry's shit you have to look for, like the Wasteland or that little bit Gaiman snuck into A Game of You. It's hidden in science - that little tidbit of physics that says we're all star matter, and we once were literally all one; or the spiritual implications that thermodynamics have on personality and intelligence. It's in math, where it's astronomically unlikely that any of us should exist in the first place, much less meet someone you last saw decades ago, whose life has yet run strangely parallel to your own.
Yeah, okay, maybe I'm being a little bit grandiose and selfish THERE, but I'm also trying to figure out a way to do one of my stories like an old fairy tale, complete with the horror story ending. So it's not completely about me being silly and trying to impress one woman
I believe that it was Homer who put it best:
"I'm such a tool."
Am I the only person who remembers that the Harry Potter theme sounds awfully like the Witches of Eastwick one?
Job's being more jobby than usual. You'd think people who have a vested interest in keeping me around would give me reason to do so.
I've got my Origins plans down for the most part. Funny thing is, someone's moving down from Ohio this week, and I'm going to be going right back up at the end of the month. Go fig. It's like pi all over again.
For some reason, I've been thinking about poetry lately. Not any one in particular, just the random crap that we're forcefed in school because TS Eliot would scare the crap out of small children. Like so much else, we're fed pap instead of quality because the tall people think kids can't deal with death. I guess pulling bugs apart as toddlers is for the insects' health.
No, the good poetry's shit you have to look for, like the Wasteland or that little bit Gaiman snuck into A Game of You. It's hidden in science - that little tidbit of physics that says we're all star matter, and we once were literally all one; or the spiritual implications that thermodynamics have on personality and intelligence. It's in math, where it's astronomically unlikely that any of us should exist in the first place, much less meet someone you last saw decades ago, whose life has yet run strangely parallel to your own.
Yeah, okay, maybe I'm being a little bit grandiose and selfish THERE, but I'm also trying to figure out a way to do one of my stories like an old fairy tale, complete with the horror story ending. So it's not completely about me being silly and trying to impress one woman
I believe that it was Homer who put it best:
"I'm such a tool."