I Found Smog At the End of My Rainbow

It's a nice mellow night. I've polished off a bottle of tonic as well as the OJ. As I type, the Dr. Who episode "Silver Nemesis" downloads. I scanned Usenet for some interesting audio theater but didn't find any. My library of E-Books is looking alright. Having watched Minority Report recently, I downloaded the PKD short story. And I also found "Roadside Picnic", the story upon which Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker was based. To my knowledge, the story is not currently in print, at least not here in the U.S.

Newsgroups are so wonderful. Books, audiobooks, TV shows, music, and tons of free porn. I've never understood why anyone would actually pay for porn on the Net when it's all there on Usenet for free. And the RIAA goes apeshit about P2P but there's tons of music still out there on various newsgroups.

My Marillion concert video nears an end. I think I'll go read some Iris Murdoch in bed. I feel strangely at ease in my discomfort. Things sorta kinda seem to be getting better. But I've been down this path before. Underneath that veneer of spring-like hope of better days nothing has really changed.

"Why can't we stay closed up inside ourselves? Why do we chase after expression and form, trying to deliver ourselves of our precious contents or 'meanings,' desperately attempting to organize what is after all a rebellious and chaotic process? Wouldn't it be more creative simply to surrender to our inner fluidity without any intention of objectifying it, intimately and voluptuously soaking in our own inner turmoil and struggle?"

I keep waiting for that day when it happens and I can write my first interesting entry in a while. Almost a year of bad luck, incompetence, and failure. You'd think all this negativity would get bored and move on to someone else.