I realize now that what I should be reading or at least investigating are works by authors in the cyberpunk/postcyberpunk genres of science fiction; why, anyone reading a lot of what I've written here might deduce that, hey, here's a guy not so nimbly wheedling along wholly oblivious to the vast and emerging bibliography of speculative fiction. I wouldn't say I've been wholly oblivious but by no means either have I delved deep. And you know and I know that the obvious book to start with is William Gibson's Neuromancer (how lame to admit that I haven't even read even that seminal title) and subsequent Sprawl trilogy. (Jules turns to Mr. Brand Spankin New and says, OK, but you are aware that there is an invention called "the Internet," and that on this invention are things called "sites" that people go to to learn about things, right?) Then again, for my purposes, it's probably (although probably not really) enough to delve through the Wikipedia entries for the aforementioned terms and titles (as I've been doing today), while checking out the associated embedded links for terms including posthuman, transhumanism, mind transfer, etc.

Not that it matters, but I'm disturbingly low-tech when it comes to getting all excited about (or even adequately comprehending) certain systems, technologies, gadgets, etc. I'm also fundamentally apathetic toward any subject involving math, logic, hard science, elaborately explicated philosophies, etc. Ergo (and I'm not proud of this), fictional worlds involving a level of detail and complexity as can be found in, say, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, or (I imagine) something like Stephen R. Donaldson's the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, have always uniformly bored the crap out of me. I didn't even finish The Hobbit. I always figured all such crap must have bored the crap out of guys like Ray Carver too, and, you know, look where it got him                (could that be less funny?)

Who the FFFF cares. All I might have going for me in this brave new world is a seriously dirty mind.

Last night in a maze of honest physical exhaustion and beer buzz it occurred to me that

maybe what this blog should be all about is cranking out daily windbaggardly commentary and opinionated aghast exposition re: the evidently perpetually incipient and insidious corruption of the evidently perpetually incumbent U.S. governmental regime, sadistically manipulative mass media machine, diabolically troubled not to say defenestrated sociopolitical condition, and then I wind up by sizing up and prizing up the tenets of me own devoutly what I'm gonna term because I saw it termed thusly on another blog just like mine, my own private cybercolloquiagism of of neo-progressive tenet and structure of god damned righteous beliefs rah RAH!! (again, I joke…a real laugh riot, haarnh?)

No, what occurred to me and it was in a hazy dazy sort of walking outdoors with a beer mindset but the thought involved: this blog being herewith held by me as sort of a serious non-consideration vis a vis my new idea which is - what they like to call pre-writing essentially being the mother of all decent writing anyway - that into this endeavor is where I should really be dumping the better part of my written efforts since it's basically the only game in town for me anyway at this point (by which I mean a point of alternating frustration, rage, despair, and abject fear of wasting it all.) Eventually if you just let it, er, alt/go/flow and if you know what you're doing (or are anyway at least trying to keep in mind what you should be doing in terms of technique) the writing slips over into something like credible fiction and then it's all just a matter of capturing that momentum for later revision. and re-shaping and putting back together. I'm pretty reluctant to explicate ideas of process for fear of jinxing them but it nonetheless strikes me that the method I personally have been seeking in terms of maintaining a sustainable habit of writing has been pretty much sitting here staring me in the face or more accurately ringing in my head all day and night long and WTF that means is something only I can know and/or feel and am often loath to bring to terms which of course is the core of the dilemma but suffice to say when broken down it basically involves periods of nearly non-stop typing, eventually shaking out into a loose hierarchy of files whereby actual finished work is eventually extracted

it's easily what I could be doing all the time because this is approximately what I've kindly trained myself to do in composing civilian writing projects for me day job by which I mean to say my one and only job because I almost never write at home these days which is a tough admission for an often aimlessly angry, sporadically lazy, quasi-alcoholic creep who really wants to have written to be making, but there it is

so, to summarize: what it comes down to is writing three to five pages a day about the lepers in my head. and with that I leave you, signing off from the big underwater deafmute navel gazing gazeatron that is this here URL, whyever not?

 (and though I don't care much for U2 I always loved that song)

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