I’ve been spending time fucking with computers, also known as installing Windows on some poor defenseless boxes, in order to give my brain some space. I had lunch the other day with the very kind and tolerant gentleman, who has read some of my feeble attempts at “writing.”

He suggested giving myself a break and writing organically rather than setting up the phantom goal of a “book.” Clearly, the whole “book” thang is too much for my pea brain on dark days. It’s like basing a hike on a stony, harsh, impenetrable outcropping, when right behind it there’s a beautiful switchback with a gentle rise and lovely vistas. In other words, I think the point is I have to stop making writing a horrible bit of work.

It’s not like it ain’t something I do anyway. Come to think of it, to me it’s like shitting. I can’t really plan for it, I don’t have a strict schedule, and if I try to hard it’s fucking painful. No more squatting in the corner while forcing fluids and praying for movement. I’m gonnna get off the pot, and see where that gets me.

I am going to create one giant pile of notes, jottings and bullshit from this here weblog and take some honest stock. Whipping my metaphor, I guess that means I’ll turn around and peek before flushing.

Meanwhile, back at the paycheck, I had one of those reality checks that the cosmos likes to sprinkle. In the midst of aggravating dealing with people and batting clean up, someone else has to cope with a death in the family. The frailty of human mortality as always adds a little focus to your perspective. I’m not sure I’ll have a singing time getting through the piles of work I have to mount to leave town. But, likely, shit will work out. Or it won’t and it will matter less than anyone thinks.

I’m meant to finalize tickets to Uganda by this week, and that’s freaking me the fuck out. In theory, I’ll be jetting to Kampala by way of our nation’s capital on May 3. Fucking Yikes. In addition to Lake Victoria, some forest land that’s supposed to home to chimps and other exotic flora and fauna, I will also perchance get to be in a room with their president. This opportunity seems quiet pleasant, unlike if I was to meet our U.S. president, whom I hate.

The danger I feel, apart from that I’ll need malaria medication and a yellow fever vaccination, is my making a fool of myself from my electronic obsessions. I’ll be among what crazies, the right wing fringe and bloggers call the MSM, aka actual people who are paid to write or broadcast things in which there are laws and codes of ethics and business practices.

It will take restraint for me not to ask real-live, fact checked journalists what they think about the massively crazy or phenomenally, deludedly, audaciously idiotic Larry Sinclair juggernaut. And, by juggernaut, I mean leaky dinghy with a sensationalistic youtube video, a loose grasp of court proceedings and cajones. (I’d link to his weblog, but he freakishly jumps on all web activity, and I don’t have retard propellant. Also, this way, if someone Googles him, there’s a chance they’ll algorithmically be drawn here rather than to his site of obnoxiously skewed truth.)

You can look it up.

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