Monday, April 05, 2004
4/5/04
Sometimes I go to real web logs -- the ones that are true diaries. You know -- the "this is what I did today" logs. So many of them come to those frustrating days in which they end up writing, "Didn't do much today. Just kind of sat around." Instead of linearly entering all this bore, why don't they just enter one average sentence after another, each having nothing to do with the last, so that the post forms a kind of theme, kind of like how a book of poetry works? Except, as Basil Bunting says, 'he who collects his poems nails together the boards of his coffin". Here are a few boards:
• The white men on the radio danced round and round until they became a single blur.
• The morning man seemed a bit sad today, and for no reason.
• On the phone, people talked past each other politely.
• I need to call someone soon.
• All the cheapskates kept their mouths shut.
• My wife and I are waiting hesitantly -- no, it's not what you think.
• And in the middle of everything, he mentioned Cartesian logic.
• I said things only because I had to.
• The web queen is getting tiresome.
• Some say they will riot in Milwaukee if the election goes against their color.
• Everyone who knows him agrees he complains too much about everything, but no one has the guts to tell him. Myself included.
• Frederick Buell says, even in Full Summer, snow gathers.
• The white men on the radio danced round and round until they became a single blur.
• The morning man seemed a bit sad today, and for no reason.
• On the phone, people talked past each other politely.
• I need to call someone soon.
• All the cheapskates kept their mouths shut.
• My wife and I are waiting hesitantly -- no, it's not what you think.
• And in the middle of everything, he mentioned Cartesian logic.
• I said things only because I had to.
• The web queen is getting tiresome.
• Some say they will riot in Milwaukee if the election goes against their color.
• Everyone who knows him agrees he complains too much about everything, but no one has the guts to tell him. Myself included.
• Frederick Buell says, even in Full Summer, snow gathers.
