Object lesson in Normal entries

Perhaps I’m best as a blogging object lesson; don’t think too tight or type too loose. I’m not sure what that means exactly but I’m dang sure that’s the object lesson. If I was just keeping a daily journal of shit I do it’d be mostly about fiddling with various electronic gadgets , mostly, these days, e-cigs. The upside to e-cigs is that I haven’t inhaled the variety of poisons in domestic tobacco, though, I suspect, e-liquid isn’t entirely poison free, compared to tobacco it’s by and far the lesser evil. The downside is I’m a fanatic when I do shit. This little attic is stuffed with year old cigars in my old humidors from Oregon, my pipe collection that started in 2002 (with pipes dating back to the turn of century before last) and now all these high tech thingys with colored juice in them.

It’s looks like a cyborg smoke shop. No hookahs but that’s only because I think that shit is silly. No offense to you hookah smokers or you shits or you silly’s. T’any rate that’s what happens when I type too tight. Ideally I like to type too loose. One of the problems with that is that usually you can find other endeavors when too loose, like whatever just popped into your mind, or, more pointedly, napping.

There’s a sort of flow that’s needed or a routine. Wait, a routine is needed, a flow is the practical piece of a muse or mojo or inspiration or whatever you want to call it. You can’t depend on a muse or inspiration or whatever you want to call it, but you can start a flow; it’s like siphoning gas, as long as you are willing to suck a garden hose and maybe get some caustic flammable stuff in your mouth, you can start a flow.

Routine can start a flow. I should do that. I mean there is no point in me keeping a journal without words in it and I think I need to keep one. Every once in a while I write some really cool shit. It’s quantitative though; I have to write a lot of marginal shit and straight up bad shit to get there. A routine makes me satisfied that I’ve spackled some rift in the fabric of things. Quilts are made of a lot of pretty colors in a pattern. The work is in the stitching and the better it’s done the less you see. Wait, shit, tweaked the metaphor and I don’t know shit about quilts except that if you make a puppies bed with them when you’re mourning the loss of the old dog the quilt is high sentimental value. Spackle the rifts; a good quilt doesn’t even have spackle.

I went a bit bat shit with ordering e-cig supplies this last week — a lot of clearance and new stuff either getting out of warehouses or titillating you into buying with incentives before the market blows up. Carbon fiber is the new material, sub ohm is the new factory rolled dealio, and some places are clearing out huge bottles of juice real cheap.

In the early days of journaling writing about ones love life was a big thing, some journals it was the exclusive thing. I don’t want to do that, but it’s all going very well, thank you. I write fiction, I wrote fiction, I want to write fiction.

See? Routine doesn’t mean good, it just spackles.