Slow. Food. | 976

My Author Journey, Monday, July 17, 2017

# 976 (countdown)

Koalas are largely sedentary and sleep up to 20 hours a day.

How can they manage to do this in this fast-paced world? With all those distractions?

Koalas are asocial animals and spend just 15 minutes a day on social behaviours.

Is it bad that they are asocial? Shouldn’t they care more about others? Are they selfish? Are they assholes?

If they had Quora for Koalas (Koara?) what would they ask? Since they’re asocial as a rule they would probably ask questions like

“I’m very social and I know that as a Koala I’m supposed to be asocial. How can I become less social when I feel this need to be social? Please help.”

“I spend 45 minutes a day on social behaviours. Is there something wrong with me?”

“My young wants to run around a lot and it worries me. How can I make him run around less?”

Bullshit! They don’t give a f*ck.

They know nothing about the fast pace, distractions or societal pressures. That is not their reality of the world. Their reality of the world is that they sleep up to 20 hours a day and do the minimum amount of socializing.

Thus, can we really say that it’s a fast-paced world full of distractions?


This is the version many people bought into. This is not the truth about the world. That’s their choice! And many people’s choice is different than the choice of those koalas. They live in a fast-paced world full of distractions because they choose so. Each day they choose this reality of the world. They subscribed to this notion of reality because they assume that they have no choice. They believe it’s their only option because they have been brainwashed by the society.


In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz (30 min; on scribd app).

Here is the longest sentence I’ve ever read, hands down (I bet it would make the top 10 longest sentences ever)!

I have his cock out of his pants and stimulating him in a crazy scene and it’s getting intense we roll down a hill past a cop van with whirling blue light and we turn into the road that leads to Hauteville la guichard and it’s pure night blooming along the thick spread of trees and scraggly bushes and we pull over to the side of the road the erotic sense too strong to continue and lock into a deep wet kiss and bodies thrusting and my pants find their way down to my ankles his tongue tracing cool wet curves over my throat and neck and shoulder-wells and down to my belly and my hands are wet with saliva and caressing his cock and rubbing his chest and my eyes half-closed with passion from his face and skin I see the mosaic trees emitting soft blue steely glints of rapid night last light sky and white spots of black cows moving glacierlike behind the trees and the gullies shuddering patches of blue-black and sounds of crickets and night birds looming among the trees and he’s down near my ankles kissing slow trails up my legs over onto my hands and back to my sides and over my cock the unbelievably warm sense of his mouth over my cock up and down and brush of lips and up to my throat again and I repeat the actions for his pleasure and his stomach is hard as a rock thrusting under my palms and lips passion as an elevator in the shape of red lights rising beneath the steel surface as a needle thrust into veins canalling the arms and legs and throbbing temples pulse, like the heat of nests and bellies of birthing creatures and needles of night shooting from surfaces of unseen things into red ruby eyes, as the taillights of this coasting vehicle having come to a final stop among the trees rolling over dead leaves burst of color behind my eyes and breathing becoming fog-dense and uttered sounds slick as stream stones and algae tongue coasting down the valleys and structure of flesh in a movement of frenzied life before the advancing wall of flame, of forest fires and aging and dreams having uttered before the plains distance of the eyes and the heart, coasting machines of complex media-flash and smiling assholes winking from the doors of brand-new Cadillacs and smoking brand-name cigarettes an ad like on highway billboards and all that drifts down in my skull with wind rising and consuming this solitary vehicle in the rasp of forestry and lonesomeness of men and the desires the world sees behind the soft spots of its knees so suddenly that the reaction is to blot out and deny but the world can go fuck itself as far as “humanity” and “need for law”: outlaws drift in every vehicle of thought coming down this hillside — cars ride way down the valleys of sunsets and gathering night where the world is laid out in dark shadows of color behind and in front of the windshield in the ruts that line the roads and the gullies that attempt to climb from their places of the earth and extend themselves to the sky and reach the dying sun before chance comes in the morning to claim their movements and momentary freedoms and send them splashing back down into places all outlined and set within the manmade history of things …

Grammarly or a similar app / grammar checker would have marked this sentence as ‘lengthy’ and spotted several other issues. A line editor would return his manuscript with an annotation “it’s freaking hard to read this stuff”.

The entries in his diary never undergone editing (they might have been proofread and that’s it). My guess. Probably justified. I guess it all stayed in it’s original form. And it’s f*cking hard to read this stuff!

And I don’t bitch about it. I take notice. I learn from it. I get it. I get why they didn’t touch it. He was an artist. They didn’t want to screw it up. Sending it back to him was not an option (he was dead).

I guess there is value in seeing the first draft (the original diary entries). I can see this value for artists. A benefit (privilege!) of seeing his creative and writing process, his development as an artist, his path.

He was 24 when he wrote this. At least seven years after he had started his diary writings (there were probably earlier ones that weren’t saved by David).

He wrote for himself. He didn’t care if it’s easy to read or if people would want to read it. He just wrote. He wrote because he had to.

I guess he cared about getting published but how and what he wrote was his own. Whether or not it got published was equally OK an outcome.

And it’s f*cking hard to read his stuff. Heck, for me (a non-native) it’s twice as hard at times. But that’s fine too. I learn more this way.


Innsaei (on Netflix)

Progress on my second book. Zero editing.

My today’s answer on Quora:

Answer to Why is it hard to know your own passion?

Music for this writing session: Messages from Hermes from The Martian Original Motion Picture Score by Harry Gregson-Williams (on spotify, on repeat). Then Tessa by Steve Jablonsky (on spotify, on repeat). Then Skyfall by Adele (on spotify, on repeat). Then Supergirl — Radio Edit by Anna Naklab (on spotify, on repeat). Then Skyfall by Adele (on spotify, on repeat).