"The rat will urinate and defecate while searching for the right path through the maze."
I only drew 64 per cent in psychology, but I think I understand some of the principles.
I am trying to get through the intricacies of putting up pictures while at the same time conflicted with the right side of my brain, that is to say, the theatre side, which sort of tries to take in everything while you are focused on the specific and the immediate.
The right side seems to want to write, knowing for sure that fiction is about relationships and nonfiction about fact, but you are not sure of the facts in your relationship with your techie.
And the friggin' left side is totally begaffled by Blogger, you not knowing whether it's Blogger or you--you can't get the mother-loving pictures up!
So fuck it.
I will begin a blog.
It is for sure that this rat is urinating and defecating while going through the mazes of Blogger.
We would rather do anything else but think. Really.
After a few million words, so-called "creative expression" is easy--too easy and we'd rather go that way than any other, the verbal way. So you build up this specific vocabulary of some ten thousand words and use those words for all of your thinking. The left, analytic side is almost gone. This was painfully brought home to me when I was forced to teach math at Seneca College and found I couldn't distinguish calculus from cabbageheads. Among other things, I had totally forgotten that you add powers in algebra, there is a shorthand; I had to go right back to the book.
This, of course, had consequences. "We know you limitaions," said the faculty head.
Ah, how easy it is to be the facile poet while knowing dick about algebra and space.
Oh, what the hell. I have this machine now. Boolean algebra, all the ways in which a human being can think, said the very late George Boole. This is illuminating and also scary as hell.
You mean, that as a rat caught in your digital maze, you can determine all the possible ways in which I can think?
I am streetwise. This is the way a jailbird homo operates. "I have the keys. You are my bitch."
I am Mr. Boole's bitch. Boolen algebra. How smart Mr. Gates must have been. How instightful to use the mirror, the window to cut through so much of the digital crap.
I am still urinating and defecating as I go from stone luddite to blogger.
My techie used to do it all for me, but now, as my blog is visited by some fairly well-known people, he is loath to do my manipulative hackwork for me. The artistic decisions and, increasigly, the technical execution should be mine.
How cool it had been to give the impression of great versatility--greatly enhanced by my technical help--and now reduced to Dingwall Dimbulb as my limitations seem right out there.
Lord how we love to spin our wheels before we actually get the driver's licence.
Speaking of licences, I once trained as a pilot. In the course of my first solo, I found myself
singing, Jambolaya Crawfish Pie Filet Gumbo, a zippy Hank Williams tune at the time.
I forsook the joys of Chery-Mio just to learn how to fly. Awkward with girls, alienating myself from my fellow pilot trainees with my garlic pickles and other goodies making up my EQ, or
Ethnic Quotient. My poor instructor. I must have given him quite a bouquet of Ukraine's national flower.
Ah, well, as you may deduce, I am ratscrabbling here just to see if I'm making any headway with blogger at all as I fly solo.
Ah, how smart we would like to be.
And how awfully pedestrian we really are.