you go, go kart!
I don't feel like I've accomplished a thing when exercising if I don't sweat. Profusely.
This has absolutely nothing to do with the title of this blog, which is a phrase that came to me one day and sounded funny enough, but really has no subject matter tied to it, so perhaps it's the title that has nothing to do with the above observation.
Nor does the following: I went to an art/spoken word display last night and saw some folks I haven't seen in almost 5 years. I went alone and could have stayed longer, but leaning against walls and quietly observing people is something best done in brief installments. The art, like all art, was subjective in its grasp, but the spoken word invoked a certain level of disappointment. Those I heard who I've heard years before performed mostly the same works I knew them for then. I wished that, with years of time between them, those performances past and present would not be so identical. It saddens me slightly, but perhaps I am imposing a certain level of necessary prolificacy on those who do not wish to be filled with literary fertility, who may not find poetry to be the all-encompassing and self-imposed trial that I have. And maybe some double hypocrisy on my part that I have been so blocked for so long that blogging is now my poetry progeny and poetry has itself become stillborn.
Ehh...it was nice to get out, at least.
And here I sit, wishing that my text could be as humorous as my title. And that my title could be as prosperous as my wanting.
This has absolutely nothing to do with the title of this blog, which is a phrase that came to me one day and sounded funny enough, but really has no subject matter tied to it, so perhaps it's the title that has nothing to do with the above observation.
Nor does the following: I went to an art/spoken word display last night and saw some folks I haven't seen in almost 5 years. I went alone and could have stayed longer, but leaning against walls and quietly observing people is something best done in brief installments. The art, like all art, was subjective in its grasp, but the spoken word invoked a certain level of disappointment. Those I heard who I've heard years before performed mostly the same works I knew them for then. I wished that, with years of time between them, those performances past and present would not be so identical. It saddens me slightly, but perhaps I am imposing a certain level of necessary prolificacy on those who do not wish to be filled with literary fertility, who may not find poetry to be the all-encompassing and self-imposed trial that I have. And maybe some double hypocrisy on my part that I have been so blocked for so long that blogging is now my poetry progeny and poetry has itself become stillborn.
Ehh...it was nice to get out, at least.
And here I sit, wishing that my text could be as humorous as my title. And that my title could be as prosperous as my wanting.
posted by scn at 11:17 AM
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