07.24.04

Mon dieu. Il doit y avoir quelque chose dans l'eau.

I checked my stats just now (because I am a sad, lonely, wanna-be geekarina) and discovered that I'd been visited via several French sites. Wubba? Then there was something through a Munich hotel site. Isn't it odd?

I checked the Powell's site yesterday evening. I'm there under Poems from a Year *whoop whoop whoop* Pardon me while I stagger around in glee.

Spent yesterday sans AC. Since it got up to 103 degrees (according to the Boregonian), that's something.

Read a lot of the Bukowski biography, Locked in the Arms of a Crazy Life by Howard Sounes (ISBN 0-8021-3697-4), yesterday. It's well-written, and seems to be well-researched. Bukowski was quite a character. He actively encouraged the mythos that grew up around him; the drinking, the fights, the women. Not that he wasn't a hard-drinking, womanizing, brawler--he was--just not to the extent that the stories and poems would have us believe. Still, he was colourful, difficult, and an outsider all his life. If I met him, I'd want to punch him in the nose. What gets me is how prolific he was. It's inspiring. Just scribble, scribble, scribble, eh?

Thanks to that inspiration, I got off my ass and freewrote for a while. I've been so focused lately. Writing without meaning or pattern liberates the crazy, wacky, non-reasoning part of my mind. That's where the stories live.

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