Sometimes I sit here and find I am completely lost for words. It is a symptom of some kind of strange disease - a compulsion that drives me to keep typing long after I’ve run out of things to say. Mostly, it is th result of one stern lecture: I have been reading a book titled “On writing Well” that at times seems to be a haunting voice from the past reminding me to keep my form and structure - that nothing else matters. Content is secondary. And in a way that book is right: I can ramble on for hours without sayign anything significant, so long as I make it easy to read.

I have again found a cozy spot at the local café, set up Mr. V, and continued to fill spaces with words. It is not so much a hobby, as it is a practice. For those who have plowed through the entirety of my blogs, you might be interested to know that they have topped the 50 page mark: that is the first few chapters of a thick novel, or a long short-story. I wonder what it would have been like if I had devoted those words to a story beyond the non-fiction that is my life. It may have been of some passing interest, but more likely not.

I wonder how may people have written books on a handheld computer. I would like to be (among) the first. It sounds silly, but I think it is becoming a comfortable possibility.

My muse has been preaching lately. He tends to go on siesta more often than not, but recently,with my renewed vigour in the art, he hangs around prodding me to get back to work. Sedating him with loud music doesn’t seem to help much either. It used to: I could give him a song or two - the morning walk to work with a CD player in my ears - and everything was cool. Now, he wants more than that: a couple short stroies, a novella, a whole string of verse, and a passing interest in fortune cookies. There really is not explaining inspiration.

muse: (mewz) 1 commonly thought of as an undefined being that grants inspiration and creative drive to those unable to supply it to themselves 2 the Oompa Loompa of the creative mind: colorful midgits living inside the consciousness who magically appear and dispense thoughtful advice and random inspiration. They work for free too. 3 Where the wild things are.

Unfortuately for him I am trapped in a closed loop: I keep repeating myself, typing blogs of pointlessness, and spilling my creative juices onto the Internet with wreckless abandon. It has no point. I think I mentioned that earlier. And why do I do this? Simple: eventually what I am saying will begin to make sense: even if only to me. Eventually these words will form a solid construct that can be shaped from some kind of wild rant into a solid philosphy of existence - a philosophy of mind - a philosophy of my creative self. That may happen today or never: who can say? But the point is that I am never wasting time: the muse knows that. I know that. Now you know that. This satisfies us - does it satisfy you? I guess if you are still reading, it must have some favorable impact on your mind: knowing that if nothing else I have taken my brain and splayed it out over these digital spaces for all to see. Yet only guardedly: I never tell all.

Plothoughts: I am curiously pondering the state of my story. Where is it going. After my aforementioned stern lecture on the art, I printed a real paper copy afte wiping a few months of dust from my printer. It still works nicely, and was just right for an evening of severe editing. I was harsh. I was cruel. I was almost evil. But I deserved it.

The umbrella culture has once again emerged here in Vancouver. I avoid the cumbersome beasts under most circumstances, but they have become a frequent fixture on the arm of most every other resident. the rain starts down one minute, and the city opens to a parasol mosaic: random colors and motions fill the sidewalks and I would liket o one day look from some high skyscraper and watch the whirling and wandering colors below. And interestingly it seems to be a sign of some kind of umbrella status: what color is your ‘brella? you might ask as you duck from cover to cover in the gentle drizzle that everyone seems to call rain. Blue, red, black - or a rainbow of shapes and logos? I don’t need one yet: I have a hood, and I like it that way.