Some ends

Assembling these patched words in an electronic space, I feel half-blind, as if the entire text is within reach, but because of some myopic condition I am only familiar with from dreams, I can see only that part most immediately before me, and have no sense of how that part relates to the rest. When I open a book I know where I am, which is restful. My reading is spatial and even volumetric. I tell myself, I am a third of the way down through a rectangular solid, I am a quarter of the way down the page, I am here on the page, here on this line, here, here, here. But where am I now? I am in a here and a present moment that has no history and no expectations of the history.

- Shelley Jackson, Patchwork Girl

One of these days my writing process might actually catch up with the rest of me, but until then I continue to be stuck drafting my densest papers with pen and paper like a caveman. There's some fundamental connection between my ability to write an essay and the motion of my hand.

I have been asked to condense Baudrillard's thoughts on historicity into a paragraph because the professor grading the paper is not familiar with him. I moved past my urge to hyperlink him to the Wikipedia article in a footnote and there's attempt number three.

Attempt number two was just writing "nothing is real and everything is permitted" but then I remembered I'm writing about Skyrim, not Assassin's Creed.

Jokes that are only funny to me now appearing everywhere.

This post brought to you by Instagram and my inability to figure it out, but my general enjoyment of watching three-second phone photos go from utter shite to slightly less shite as the filters scroll through.

This entry was originally posted at http://adrien.dreamwidth.org/3811.html.