Omara Petuondo on repeat because it’s that sorta mood

Last night:

Nostalgia typing on an Inspiron again, the keyboard and mousepad and buttons in all the same places as my old one, like reviving a dear pet of yours for one dear hour, having another chance to run your hand down its back again, down into its butthole your pinky finger, WHAT? It is my cousin’s, this laptop. Because mine decided to die earlier this afternoon, with all the book-related stuff trapped in its plasticky sarcophagus, not that my laptop is shaped like a sarcophagus, it’s a metaphor, you see. And about 2 months of photos I hadn’t backed up,,, that’s about it I think. Loss in the digital age just doesn’t feel as heartfelt. Barthes would’ve had something to say about that, similar I’d imagine to an essay found in Mythologies about wooden toys vs. plastic toys, although I can’t even remember much about the point made in said essay, but I have a Barthes tag so I figure I may as well namedrop him again. 

Joseph Brodsky wrote a poem every Christmas or something, he’s infinity -1 ahead of me

Yet another month’s passed since my last post, although I did have two false starts in that span; when the process of writing them bores me (I swear I wrote like 400 words about moussaka), it’s best to leave them as wriggling unfinished appendages- I never like tako all that much. To be fair it ain’t outta laziness, my dearth of talking into this thing, I have been a tad busy: job hunting (something finally came to fruition, teaching Eng. lit at a community college here), stuff with the manuscript, and a healthy dose of bar-hopping (though not nearly as frequent as months before). Since the last sentence offers me the easy framework for three litany-y paragraphs…