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[plasticman111]

To be perfectly honest, there has always been a hole in my life through which the meaning of it has constantly escaped. It reminds me of a laundry machine in that there is something casual about it, something like sunlight and pyjamas. I don't worry about it often, but occasionally it occurs to me that I have failed to build or accumulate anything.

Comments

[ricepeste]

Hear ye, hear ye. I think I'm where you are, now. Have my recent entries frweaked you out, or alienated you? I hope things are going well with your film. I know that I'm not the most reliable blogger, but I try to keep up. You all, now, are my invisible friends, and I fear the day they raze these records, because of the work I've put into them ( and for only a few people to see, it's baffling! ).

[plasticman111]

You know I was worried, cause I didn't have anything to say to your last post. I had nothing to send back to you. I think I have that happen to me a lot. When you write from the strange solitude in the dead center of yourself, in the alien language of your own isolated experience - when you don't attempt to curve, curb, or convert your language into the "shared" miasma of general assumption, then you have to expect that much of it won't hit that solid point in the Other that will return you a signal. I guess I could have said something complacent to cover the silence that you opened up, but I think you'll understand why I didn't. I like what you write and I look for it every time that I come to livejournal. If at times it takes you months to say something, well, some times it takes me as long, so why should I worry about it. In fact, it makes me more fond of the conversation. It's like a conversation between elephants or a chess game played through the unreliable mail.