Upcoming Projects Outlay and Fewer Made Up Words

As much as I love reassembling language, I'm going to try and cut down on the made up words, no matter how functional they are to me. There's just something about the ring of things like legister, and healspan, and gastronaut, and dreadlot that color things in my head, but make no sense outside of it. I'm not saying they won't come up at all. I'm saying I'm going to try and keep a lid on it (as much as I'm going to try and cap my typing to more reasonable lengths of chained thoughts).

In other news, I'm still trying to work in time for Bits. It's daunting because there are more than thirty short stories that are unedited that were at one time fully edited and since I'm left with the unedited versions by redoing the edits I'm essentially going to end up with stories different from the ones I came to love once I edited them. It's like leaving for work and coming home and all the furniture is moved and because so many things are moved and they all existed relative to one another you can't begin to put things back where they go because by placing one thing you are essentially displacing everything no matter what that first thing is so you get comfortable instead in your weirded home and the weirdness becomes acceptable though deeply irritating and depressingly better than the peak fear of resetting the changes, but ultimately you're rushing toward a breaking point where the peak of the fear of completely inverting the reality and order you originally wanted to induce is broken by the critical mass of foreignness settling daily. So I'm going to do it. There is no way I can't. In short, it's a trap. A glorious trap.

I don't know when my days off will fall week to week so I think I may just settle on Wednesday mornings as Saturdays are dedicated to sewing my realities back together after days of cutting sutures and vision bleeds. That's longer term.

Shorter term outlay:

Finish paper robot and mail it to Boulder.
Go get computer in mid-March so I can do design again without cramping my hand on a mouse using crappy windows xp paint programs.
After I get computer, finish novel on the computer (no seriously, it was 2/3s done... I don't like it, but I told myself I would do it so I have to finish it so I can get that monkey off my neck and get the bullshit devices out of my body and then actually do one I want to do).

I guess that's it. Oh wait-

Need to build a target to punch. My knuckles are way too soft.
And need a big ol' scroll of paper to tape to my wall so I can draw on it and write things.
And then the list of bull required by living on my own like a trash can. And chairs. And a desk. And a lamp.

And of course more poetry. But the kid has been absent. I don't know where the whimsy has gone. The climate in the factory has turned a bit gritty and I want more than anything to be able to write and rhyme about the stars in my sky between the leaves of my dreams of the gray sand castles and tide pools on the shores of a warm hell. It's just hard to find sometimes without a guide. I'll keep looking though. It's strange sometimes. With the bridge gone and slipping across into the unreal only to find the city is abandoned and you're alone to wander the concrete blocks turned over to the trod and glass eyed streets and on slipping back you are quarantined for contamination and failing inside for particulate poisoning and mutation is flowering in your cells, but none of it was supposed to be and was somehow more real than imagined. I wonder sometimes if I did drop acid would anything change. I'll know someday. Till then, there is work yet to be done.

///Goldfrapp - "Utopia" It's a strange day. No colors or shapes.