i was recently reminded of 'free writing' from a friend here. the guy just sat down and put pen to paper, saw what happened, wrote a song. i explained that i hadn't done truly 'free' writing since junior year of high school, which was when my then hated english teacher forced us too. now loved, i'm sure.
this simple conversation at club rainbo blossomed into my current situation of writing thoughts of whatever comes to mind in a specific library-bound time period; just putting fingers to keys. my last post was that, as was this, as will be future posts. my ability to think of and plan blogs has vanished, so this outlet will be my corner in the room, the one you don't notice until it's super dirty, and cleaning it becomes it's only real function.
i wanted to take a picture of myself in this library, with a close background of book rows, and a sign that reads "NON-FICTION". i decided that, whereas i would have no problem with this, onlookers would give attention, which (ANY attention on one person) is taboo at public libraries. so i didn't do it. so went into the reading room and read some of my current book, 'adventures on the wine route', by a fucking pig named kermit lynch. slightly insightful, though, and mostly aimed at my expansion of wine knowledge. (if a mirror looks in a mirror, do black holes erupt?). now i'm leaving to bike in this wind, this unseasonal and most likely short-lived cold, and hopefully not get super wet with rain, if it comes down.
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