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Wednesday, July 23, 2014

No kind of magic at all

In which the bar hovers pretty low but we manage to evoke my refrigerator, the practices of wiccan, post-modernism, our literary trevails, Ray Carver, Raymond Chandler, Leonardo DiVinci, the Eagles, and toilet humor. We win.




No more than a game, these magnet words. They make you write poems you wouldn't otherwise. Bad post-modern poems. I spent half an hour just organizing the words. And then the experiments with photo filters. It's like I'm torturing you. The only thing I like about this one is the connection between the salt circle -- which I think is part of wiccan ceremonies -- to the 'magic' of the first line. Totally by accident. And the smoke, I think wiccans set things on fire quite a bit. Obviously I'm pretty ignorant of things wiccan.


Who's this? It's not our usual Ray. But rather Raymond Chandler, whose birthday is today, and who said, "Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon." Which sounded particularly brilliant to us, since we're not having a particularly creative day, having two different things we keep trying to write in our heads. One we're playing with just for fun (not the frig stuff) but the other has driven us to stop-and-start fits with lots of deletions and no result. It needs a hook but all we have is a sinker. It's a piece with dry heaves that would be better off if we could just barf it up. We better flush the toilet, and wash our hands of it. 

(sorrysorrysorry. Realize I need to read a little Ray.)

As long as we're throwing names around let's approach the denouement with this, from Leonardo DaVinci. Because all the connections.



It's all going down the crapper anyway so why not


And there's some rumors going round  / someone's underground  / she can rock you in the nighttime / until your skin turn red

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