APHORISM; DIRIGIBLES ARE NOT FOR NEOPHYTES



I have abandoned the notion of a chronological history of my fucked-up life all due to a technological glich that killed my first post. You will now be subject to ongoing repressed rage which is where my chronology would have led anyway. The g blogger button says that this is a way to let your friends what you are doing and shit like that. Friends, I am disintegrating before your eyes in a blast of public humiliation. Considering myself a some time writer (I've published books, ok?) I know that first drafts are invariably embarrassments a day later so I've got to quickly adapt to a medium that I mostly do not understand. I need to chew gum and write a blog at the same time. And it will be filled with ME, a subject I exorcise from everything I write because ME is so fucking boring in even bores me. The objective of this paragraph is to contain not one statement of any factual nature whatsoever.



This will change. I will invariably be drawn to illustrations of my encounters with the famous, the near-famous, the fools, the would-be fools who have crossed my path and tried to trip me before I tripped them. I will try to keep recognizable people out of it as much as possible. I am deeply into therapy with someone who is attempting to cure me of writing claptrap like this, as well as various other issues in my so-called personal life.. It's been five years and supposedly we are on the downside of the mountain and it has all led to a journey to the east. I meditate now for an hour a day and occasionally encounter 10 minute peaceful blasts when I am not thinking what a fucked-up mess my life is and that god (oh, come on) never gives us more than we can handle. He is an equal opportunity employer. LA may be influenced by my career in publishing but do I really have to live through it again?It's not remotely interesting unless you are an editorial assistant who still believes in Maxwell Perkins. But if I eliminate my career and my family all I am left with is anger at technology, five years of therapy and mindfulness. Wake me when it's over.This is like sending messages from your fingers to your brain without sensing that it really works the other way round. I can already feel its irresistable disorder destroying the roots of autobiography.

I edited a book about the internet that tells you that importance is what is important to the most people. LA becomes this feather in a snowstorm which you have to squint to see, white against white. One of the whites is the web and one the content. "Here I am." I see shapes. I see endless horizons. I see someone telling me to shut the fuck up.