I hope that wasn’t a mistake.
I just made a whole pot of coffee after chowing down on a Lara bar, and am now considering throwing some slices of bread into the oven to broil into toast. And then slather with Nutella and honey, and drink with me coffee, and enjoy a moment’s quiet in the kitchen. Not too quiet, truth be told, cause I’ve got Xavier Rudd playing on the speakers, and he’s a quiet joy to listen to, real good and righteous and thougtful and stirring, but goes well with a mug of black coffee, dark as sin, with a toast and nutella slather.
Man, you know what’s right awful? Alan Moore. It’s awful when you come across writers, artists of his caliber, because yeah sure, on one hand they’re amazing to read and inspiring and all that rot, on the other they make you aware of the profundities available to those of uncommon intelligence and razor insight. It’s as if I’d been traipsing along a meadow, and he’s suddenly revealing chasms and depths that I’d never dreamed of. And what’s worse, he does it so naturally it seems easy, his characters poignant and human, their plights immediately understandable, their humanity so real that you feel such empathy. Bah, him and Gene Wolfe both are awful to read.
Anyways. That’s the lot of anybody aiming to strive at an art. Did you know that James Tiptree when young gave up painting because she decided she would never, despite her inordinate talent and passion, be as good as the best? Her inability to be a true genius dissuaded her from being merely uncommonly good. It’s a rough life, it is, being merely good when you’re inspired by the best. And some of us ain’t even that!
Piddle on it.
Anyways, I’ll wager the pot of coffee is properly steeped at this point. Going to go toast that bread, slather that nutella, listen to some Xavier Rudd and dolefully read another chapter or two of From Hell.
Then it’s outs, because it’s Friday nights!