( 12:14 PM )
12PM, Monday. Music Currently Playing: Queens of the Stone Age.
This is a bit a of a novelty for me... this "blogging." Generally, I would consider journals to be private for a reason--it's the writing you do for yourself and if you put something down that's good enough for others to read, you can always migrate it to some other form, right?
So it's about voyeurism, is my guess. In my imagination, thousands of drooling weirdos with dirty t-shirts and body odor are logging on waiting for me to reveal all the wicked details of my life, all the melodrama and etcetera. There's isn't much to reveal:
On the way to work this morning I drove by the power plant and from it a vast pillar of steam was rising into the sky, blotting the sun to a gaunt ball of yellow-red. The wind was licking in from the cracked windows slapping the scattered papers on the floorboard all around. Everything felt crisp and sharp, I was passing cars fast and their slick painted glow seemed to pulse with some big new ionic energy, all the massive asphault progress, gasoline and cement growing hives of iron, the city around me an organic thing, with people in its bloodstream.
Sometimes, for me, it all still feels like a t.v. program or dream. Time for me to shake an angry fist at my cosmic narrator and go back to work.
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