On Life and Love
Whatever is making or breaking my day.
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East nineteen ninety ninety-nine-nine-nine…
T-dawg’s birthday gifts included two Bone Thugs N Harmony CDs; while not the kindest part of his gift, it’s the part that’s keeping me up and writing tonight when I want to be sleeping away the remainder of the week. I loved the Bone Thugs when I was a kid, although I never owned any of their CDs. I remember recording “Crossroads” off the radio and playing the tape until it warbled. “East 1999” never played long on the radio, I remember; I liked it a lot, but didn’t hear it enough for my tastes. Then and now, the Bone Thugs’ style struck me as so different and much more…
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Coverings
You ever wear a sweater or sweatshirt over a normal t-shirt for warmth, and then catch yourself being nervous about taking off the covering, because, you know, what if you only imagined putting on that shirt underneath?
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Pain, or suffering?
I can’t comment directly on Krustukles’s recent entry, so I’ll do so here. She writes of ethical thoughts regarding vegetarianism vs. omnivorism, listing some interesting thoughts in an attempt “to develop an informed position on the subject”. What struck my particular interest was the point: Regardless of whether animals have a consciousness which to us is not apparent, it is easily demonstrable that most things more complicated than fungi have some kind of nervous system, if only rudimentary. Even if a cow isn’t contemplating Proust, it does feel pain. This is always a stopping point in my discussions with WO on animal killing. He argues that, yes, cows may feel…
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Poetry all around
I’m not really a writer of poetry. I tried my hand at it back in 9th grade for some English assignments, and the results continue to embarrass me now. I’ve been tempted to post one or two, in fact, but honestly, I’m not sure I could face the questions from high school friends here who would wonder who in the hell I thought I was so in love with at the age of 14 that I should write horribly cynical poetry about. Regardless, last night, as I was lying in bed, my response to a stressful situation came to me in poetry. I blame this on listening to lquiet last…
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Dissatified on the creative side
I feel like I haven’t written in forever. I mean, I blog occasionally, but not at length. I write for the paper, but nothing really challenging aside from infrequent humor pieces. I haven’t written fiction… sigh since early summer. NaNoWriMo’s coming up, and I’m dry on ideas. That’s straight from a lack of practice. Every idea I come up with is suspiciously like a story or character I’ve read of recently, and I’m not up for 50,000 words of fanfic. Even my diary writing has been sporadic and staccato in style. “I went to yoga. Yay! I binged again. Boo. Oh, well, better luck tomorrow.” I’m realizing lately how important…