Last night I had a dream that took a waking hour of research to understand.
Though not the central, or even an important part of the dream, I rode a device seemingly pulled from a video game. I’d have dismissed it as such had the name for parts of it not been so clear on my lips.
Somewhere in my head had been stored a rudimentary understanding of aeronautics, something I couldn’t explain now without the aid of several open google tabs.
But, theoretically, that thing I rode would work, and from what I got from what I understood of the physics pages I’ve read today, the thing would work much as it did in my dream.
Would that memory and dream shared a greater overlap in my head. I’d like to know how I knew what I seem to have known.
I know so much of what I know by feeling that it has become hard to differentiate between what I really know and what I only believe.
Mary tells me it’s better to have a broad set of knowledge that I can’t truly define than it would be to have a more limited pool I could exactly quantify, and for the most part I agree, but I wish I had names for the principles behind the theories and data sets that I’ve put into practice but forgotten to call by name.
I’m at the stage of infection where a cold feels more like the most tedious party drug one’s every done than it does an ailment. I’m mostly confused and detached. One might argue that’s only a little changed from my normal demeanor. One might be right.
I’ve rounded the three quarters point on my numerical list of aspired submissions. I figured one a week for fifty-two, but at thirty-eight this year and no publications, I might have to increase that number by whole. That being said, anything multiplied by nothing is nothing, so I’m not sure the specific number matters greatly.
Kaaterskil Basin Literary Journal did technically publish a piece of mine this year, but I submitted the piece last year and thus have trouble counting it toward this year’s accomplishments.
Such is my way. Give me a shiny balloon and I’ll point out its inevitable and momentary decline, right before I tell you of all the toxins gone into making and trashing it.
I need to work on becoming more famous so my moping seems endearing. That certainly seems easier than cheering up.
Despite my prognostication in the last post, I have been writing, though very slowly. Paragraphs, and sometimes single sentences only, continue to precipitate out of conversations with others and seemingly blank stares of my own. The stories are still there, whether or not I’m active at them.
The two part novel is growing. Short stories seem to be assembling themselves. All that’s truly been cast aside is my speaking of doing so, and it’s very hard to judge if the latter-most is of the greatest or least importance in the lifelong pursuit of professional writing.