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Scribblebook
Writing used to be such a joy. Pulling out a notebook on a street corner and just writing whatever. I gradually became such an institution. Refining. Working toward finished works. Publishing. Putting everything into the computer and having all of this organization. It's like playing catch with dad when I was a kid: it was just pure fun, in the moment, for the joy of it. I did not go on to Little league and then sports and all the uptight stresses that go along with it. How can I unbury myself from the opressiveness of the institutionalization of what my writing process has become?
Perhaps the 6th Great extinction will usher in age of gigantic trees. That’d be a relief.
“What is an English dictionary today? It would have to be written each dawn; it would list every word used in an English conversation, chat, printing, and journal, anywhere on earth, in the previous 24 hours. The definitions would be whatever the users meant when they spoke or typed. Including all the typos and ignorance, all the halts and errors of language-learners, all the electronic garblation, the cries of ecstasy or pain, and every syllable of the mumblings of all the madmen in the world who thought they were using English.”
