Stranded in the jungle

I'm forever finding old writing documents in dinosaur file formats that I can't open properly and have to reconstruct. My computers are always dying. I'm always running out of space on all my devices. I'm forever surrounded by stacks of books and notes I write to myself that get lost or go ignored. I'm like an important poet, but I'm not important and not a poet.

This is kind of poetic though; I wrote it in 1994 and I like it. It's kind of BladeRunner-esque.

"Come in," says he with a smirk and even, perhaps, a drop of wit.
"I've been expecting you all day, in fact, all of my life which, as far as I can remember, is all of today."
    
she pulls up a chair, accepting his invitation, but only as an afterthought.
"I ran out of places to run," says she.
"invariable," says he.  "charming."  she draws out a cigarette.  he lights it, suggestively.

I'm inspired now to write a bunch of small nonsense stories, just whatever can set a vibe and fit on a postcard.

If anyone wants one, send me your address! 

Write "postcard story" or something in the subject line, in case you're finding this years from now during the climate wars, and I can't remember anything because trauma is constant and half my day is spent harvesting water from–

Meanwhile, back in the States ..

Awhile ago I teased that I was about to fuck my life up something serious and yes, reader, that nebula is still pulsing. But as for what I intended that fuckery to look like, I stared at everything too long, and melted it. Such is the drawback of having LASER EYES. Sometimes if you focus too hard on things, you BURN THEM.

What I had intended was, as a brain cleansing detour en route to a bigger goal, to purge about half my stuff, put most of what remained in storage and move into a little interim apartment with virtually nothing in it but a stack of books, my cats, and a desk, and WRITE. But I was thwarted by how expensive L.A. got during the ten years I've been living in my little rent controlled gang territory turkey shack, and got ripped off by an opportunistic fake landlord, and decided to sort the Big Goal first and then shuffle some other stuff around in the meantime; the Big Goal has always been to throw a dart at an international map, and move. While I'll likely be in L.A. another year or two, I've thrown that dart.

Details to follow, when I've sorted things out a little more concretely.

But I've picked a city. Do not let me stare at it. Don't let me stare at it. Do. Not. Let me–

 

Meanwhile, back in the jungle ... 

Like if I'm going to get any serious writing done, I'm going to start with an empty desk, and about three days in I'm gonna have birds nesting in my hair and a crazy board with red yarn connecting Alternative Tentacles stickers to unraveling cassette tapes & photos of punks kissing; it's just SCIENCE.

Consider yourself WARNED.

Love, yours truly, your Replicant Laureate