stew

Recently inspired to do short pieces on the possibilities of genetic modifications, how they could potentially affect the body.  As a springboard, I feel ultimately that such a process would bring a person or animal down to the level of thing; possessed of nothing but the blocks that build life, with ramifications for evolution.

I don't know, this writing craze has left me abundantly and entirely, I gave it up for about a year.  I found my life to be richer and fuller, spending time away from paper.

I recall flights and delving into poetics a year ago, but I don't rightly recall how to do so again.  Reading my old work, I wonder about the patterns, if some of the stuff was just downright nonsense, or if there was anything to it.  I wonder if they can even be said to be reflective of a life at this point.  Really I guess I wanted to be a writer in school.  Out here, the compulsion is lacking and so is the time strangely.  More to the point, I gather that computers and the internet make plagerism a constant threat, which is not a chance I want to take anymore.  People have ripped me off in the past, my work, things that I said and recorded that seemed to come out of my own blood.  It's not a good feeling.  Thinking about it, I'm not sure that I even want to use this as a means of communication.

Hmm, the other things I want to talk about seem hidden.  I should probably just shut up here and save the world the trouble of ferreting out joy, emotion, or thought from what I have put down.

Call it a shame, but I took down a bunch of good posts on this blog.  People were stealing them.  Fuck that. Assholes.  It's a shame, and I don't really understand the compulsion to want to rip off someone else's creative work.