I plan

to discover some of the uses of Fish Sauce. I've now run across two recipes for salad dressings calling for:

fish sauce
lemon/lime juice
vinegar
soy sauce/salt
garlic

In

a book by Henry Miller (Plexus?) was written, "Cultivate your own nonsense."

I'm trying.

Regard each

eye separately, now consider each as something that might be unscrewed from the head. Not just the eye itself but the area around, roughly the size of the largest circle that could be drawn on the front pad of your hand. You would never know this region could be unscrewed; it would not hurt or disturb.

I have a sci fi novel called "Candy Man". Author's name is something King I think. The main character is a robot. If I recall, he is told that he will be rebuilt as a human. They could rebuild him as a robot (again) but it would cost too much. That has stuck with me for about 20 years now.

Exploring the inside

of a giant drum. It is dark, and so far empty. But somewhere inside, surely, there is something.

Poltergeist

My ideas are the ghosts that haunt your mind.

Note: This isn't adressed to anyone in particular, nor is anything meant by it, nor do I know which ideas are being referred to. And further, the author is not responsible for the ideas expressed here.

Actually...

there are two sorts of light: solar and lunar. Solar light is emitted by the sun, and also by most lamps and lightbulbs, though in a weaker form. Solar light helps plants grow. Lunar light is emitted by the moon, ghostly lamps, and a few other things. Lunar light is connected to the fungal world.

This theory, though false, has phenomenological validity. It must have been proposed at some point with seriousness. Must have.

More later, about the real difference between solar and lunar shadows, and the reason I like the blue flames of gas stoves.

Editor Disease

Seeing wasted words everywhere; finding ways to shorten papers authored by strangers and published years ago; deleting entire sentences from conversations as one utters or hears them.

An excess of brevity.

The Dip Engine.

1. Choose base ingredient
2. Add mix of lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, hot peppers, pepper, salt, cilantro or parsley, and maybe some onion.
3. Blend it all up.

If your base ingredient is the Chickpea, you will end up with Hummus. If your base ingredient is the Tomato you will end up with Salsa (but go light on oil and heavy on peppery). And on and on. My next base ingredient is the artichoke heart.

Hamadrymania

Kink Cobra and Sacred Babboon.

As it goes.

As it goes, so should a path be followed. And then there really is no question, assuming one is following the path. But if questions persist? Then maybe these are questions of whether some other path should be followed, or whether any path should be followed at all, or other questions. That said, things remain as they are and no more is known, the answer not having been in response to any question.

And more on tea.

Recently craving the tea of the fictional past.

We are reading Ulysses. That is, I am now on p. 12. We'll see where this goes.

Dedalus, Haines, and Mulligan have just drank some very strong tea. Now I want to try it also.

We tried so

many varieties of tea. And still, black tea is best. The exotic fails. Same as when we wanted to buy strange meats (snake, alligator, etc) and the butcher told us to forget it and just get beef. "You can't beat it."

And you can't.

I can't

get myself to write it, so here is the synopsis:

A market with neon signs marking the stalls (sort of based on the marked in Seattle). A person
(nondescript/average) visits, and then revisits and revists, etc., giving up more of regular life, until finally spending all of his days at the market (maybe sleeping there too), somehow transfixed by the neon signs. The addictive power of those particular neon signs.

Like a sock

filled with coins.

If if if

Then then then

Not content

Not content to let nature take its course, we brought in all of the fallen leaves and ironed them individually.

I fed you

I fed you oranges, but told you it was tiger meat.

Despire

to have negative aspirations, i.e. despirations.

As in: wanting to slum.

Once upon a time

a butterfly escaped from a storybook and entered the world. The real butterflies immediately noticed something was funny about it. It seemed too substantial to be a real butterfly, because of its traces of paper and ink. But it also seemed to only half-exist, having been created from the imagination of its book's author.

Although the real butterflies sensed something odd about the book butterfly, they were kind to it, treated it well, and helped it look after itself. The book buttefly needed the help, because lacking natural instincts it often needed to be told what to do. Despite the friendly reception from the real butterfly, the book butterfly desired to become real, and went about asking everyone how it could do so.

A toad suggested that it should just wait because the passing of time would render it real. But time passed and nothing happened. A bird suggested (while trying to eat the book butterfly) that the problem was that it had never been a caterpillar, nor even spent time in a coccon. "Perhaps", speculated the bird, "if you behaved as a caterpillar, and made slept in a cocoon, acquiring these experiences would make you real."

The book butterfly tried its hardest to emulate caterpillars. But they were unable to tell that it was not a real butterfly, found its behavior very odd, and most refbuffed it. So after a few days the book buttefly gave up, concluding that it would not be able to acquire the experiences of real butterflies.

Then one day, the book butterfly was flying by the base of a tree when it heard an new sound, the cry of a cicada. Cicadas are very wise, spending years meditating beneath the earth. The book butterfly presented its problem to the cicada. The cicada buzzed for several moments and then suggested that the book buttefly must find the author of its book. Perhaps if the author were to write more about it, perhaps writing that it were real, or writing about its days as a caterpillar, perhaps then it would be real.

The butterfly heeded the cicada's advice, and took years seeking out the author of its book. Eventually the author was found and the butterfly presented its case. The author was remarkably happy to fulfill the request, and the butterfly soon felt very real. But it was never sure about whether it was real and in the world, or merely back where it had started and in a book.

Lepidoptera

Sometimes the prettiest caterpillars turn into the plainest little moths.

From:
"I like butterflies" by Gladys Conklin (Holiday House. New York, NY. 1960)