Monday, August 30, 2004

The Whale

Subdued the stresses and strains of social existence, at least for a little while, by escaping to the bath to read a little more, like Moby-Dick's Ishmael escaping to the wide ocean. I'm enjoying the very brief chapters of the book, finding that it keeps the scenes and ideas separated and easily distinguishable and prevents the mind from wandering.

On Wednesday I think I'll start work on writing my radio play, which reminds me, I must see if I can get my hands on some old Goon Show episodes for a little inspiration.

I read something about computer input and output a little earlier and after my bath, thought that it almost, in a way, resembled my mind. I experience various sensations as input, which swirl around my head and mix with all the stuff that's already in there. Then, that pool of thought gives rise to certain impulses, which become sounds from my mouth, actions in my body, or words on the page. It's somehow different though; unlike most computer functions, providing the same imput does not produce the same output. Every past experience, no matter how small, carries with it the potential to vastly influence subsequent actions. Like a lone butterfly flapping its wings in the dark corners of the mind, perceptions from the past reside as patters in my head, often hidden, each ready to someday reign once more.

Alright, enough of that. My stomach is telling me that it's hungry in various grumbles and groans. Perhaps I should listen.


Moby-Dick

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