A dream, & randomative-contemplations/thoughts, &c.

Mr. Duane Michals, playing Goof-off

A dream:—

I was talking to Ray Bradbury in my Grandmother's kitchen, in which, after a few events of noticing, I realized had turned into my Father, who appeared to be carrying on about his business, and wasn't making any hesitations to find the appropro items needed to prepare his dinner. Gene Okerlund and Bobby Heenan were in the living room interviewing, again, Ray Bradbury. Gene Okerlund was bald on top (as one has always known of his appearance) and the hair around his head was long and was puffed up in the air like a bad version of an afro. Bobby Heenan looked like my Uncle Terry Huckaby and his shirt was unbuttoned a few ways down in which he was showing his chest-hair. I stood there in front of them, watching and listening to their conversation as they interviewed Ray. After the interview was over, they walked towards me with big smiles on their faces. I moved out of their way as they came walking past me, but I didn't turn around to watch them leave. Walking from the living room and back into the kitchen, I saw my Father continuing to prepare his meal - walking from cabinent to cabinent, in which he appeared to be searching for something specific.

Suddenly, I was at the Grammy Awards. My hair combed like Carey Grant and I was wearing a black tuxedo. I was seated on the right side of a "bleacher" area with various family members who had come along to hear my name called during the nomination. Driftingly-so, I was standing inside of an airport looking out of one of the large windows. Outside was a white airplane that had "2000" written across it and some other text directly combined into it. The airplane's wheels were like "Bigfoot" wheels, yet its original wheels were located in different locations underneath the plane. Immediately I was sitting inside of the plane as it began to slowly move before eventually taking off. I realized shortly after it began moving that I wasn't supposed to be on this plane and that I needed to get off immediately. There was a woman sitting in front of me who had a "beehive"-style haircut, pinned up. I told her that I needed the plane to be stopped so that I could get off. She halfway turned her head around, pointed, mumbled, and turned back to her original forward position. I heard someone say something in relation to how the plane wouldn't be stopped. It was as if I was sitting behind the pilot and the woman "became" the pilot. Looking out of the front windows of the airplane we were now on an interstate. Desperation to find a point where we could turn around, I motioned for her to take a left at the first "Exit" I saw. I thought to myself, "There is no way possible this plane is going to be small enough to get onto an Interstate..." — The end. How sad.

Anyone whom wishes to become a good writer should endeavour, before he allows himself to be tempted by the more showy qualities, to be direct, simple, brief, vigorous and lucid.

This general principle may be translated into practical rules in the domain of vocabulary as follows :—

Prefer the familiar word to the far-fetched.
Prefer the concrete word to the abstract.
Prefer the single word to the circumlocution.
Prefer the short word to the long.

—from The King's English, by Henry Watson Fowler, Francis George Fowler

Interpretations bear fruit, at times, do they not, to take up residence? To be excited by such passion makes it like an "identical place," — "like a tad-pole, both summer and winter, in a puddle" — but critiquing isn't necessary when you're intentionally "breaking the rules." The fatigue of laziness shows no remorse. Imagine that you hair grows soft, docile and abundant. I personally find that a good memory is as rotten as writing, especially if the conditions can be formed from something that hath no copy of errors that're committed by day, and no direction ("no direction home," perhaps) where no methods can be reviewed at any time. Thus, the effect is multiplied. As a form of reference?
[Julia Kristeva states that each text is built like a "patchwork of subpoenas," which implies recognition of intertextuality as a phenomenon that is at the root of literary text. "Any text is the absorption or conversion of another text," said Kristeva.]
In any case, have you ever wondered what the elephant is thinking when doing tricks in a circus for clumsy clowns? Feed the clowns, the tigers, the bears, the elephant that stands with one knee on a stool. Or, perhaps: You are surprised at all, what the elephant thinks to interest easily, brailed up in a circus for the Clowne maldestro? It feeds the Clowne, Tigris, the bears, the elephant[?], that it is stopped with a knee on a support?
Charlie Brown. Lots of "good grief" intertwined. My uncle always says, "grief is never good." A "Karen" could have her name changed to Cairn. Writing is like leaving something in a subway — a card, envelope, dust, blood, wallet, purse, &c. — and expecting it to be there upon returning. It's like Leaf Miners leaving visible trails, wound-pixels, magnified places [paces], anisotropy, rural french château, grotesque shores and so-so many direct methods of exploiting it all because you feel like it is a healing, a kind of omittion from the brain ("a relief" until it comes back again), so the results are typically the same. Writer's block is false. It's like being constipated.

I've — after surgeons.

My "indoor drama" is a three-stage (strange) Light at the scene of creeping. A sort of inner air-to-air. I can also feel quiet places.

The mind's memory, like the expanding cosmos.

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