Spider webs and depth perception

The other day reality bent, and I blame it on spiders. I was sitting in my dining room, and in the window three strands of spider silk hung, reflecting the sun. They were all three of them parallel to each other, in a straight line and like stripes. And the sun reflected off of them.

Because of the angle of the sun, because of the angle of me and the distance of my eyes between the strands of web.... Because of that, in my left eye, I could see only the middle of the three webs, and in my right eye I could see both the others, one above and one below.

My mind saw this, and tried to consolidate. My mind tried to merge what my left eye saw with what my right eye saw, tried to make only one strand of web...or only two...or only one...and all the time, the surrounding world wouldn't fit into the picture! All that was bent. None that straightened straightened right. I failed to understand or comprehend and my mind dissolved into osmosis, and my brain dribbled out my nose...

The end.

Just a little windswept

They say that characters have minds of their own, and they say that stories can kind of write themselves. I've always been skeptical, because I believe myself to be master of my imaginings.

That's my opening statement. Here's where I'm going:

My novel has been coming in chunks recently. They seem like sizable chunks as I write, and I'm always surprised when, instead of ten pages, I have five. I wondered where the surprise came from until I figures out how much I was actually thinking about this story as I've been writing it. Because of the sheer volume of attention I'm devoting to it two things are happening: when I take breaks, my head hurts; and I truly expect larger chunks of prose.

Admittedly, this novel hasn't, so far, been a shining example of beautiful English, but it has, as it were, been "writing itself" mostly. The beginning I had to force into existence, flinty and sparky and kindling makes story. But then I just sort of steered a little and pointed out scenic attractions; the story's tour guide through the murky parts of my imagination. Just over the last spread, though--the last thirty pages, maybe--I've started to move further back from the front, even. The tour group that my story was had started taking its own initiative, at least that's how it felt. And now I'm, more or less, straggling in the back, trying as hard as I can to just keep up while my tour group of a story hares along at a thousand curiosities a second.

It's gotten so that I like to just take a break every now and then. Not to think about what to put next, but to figure out what just happened so I can understand where I am now.

Comfortingly, I can put it back into a track for a while after that. I'm glad I still have some control over it.

My head hurts.

AAAAAAAAH!

TEQUILLA! Everything's going all...wobbly.... I could probably walk...minus the whole, like, getting around thing. It's like tunnel vision, without the tunnel. Like being light headed, but with all this weight. Like sleeping, except snakey 'cause my eyes are open. It's like...wearing off.... Okay...

I don't think I can hold my liquor very well. Not enough Irish gene. Bummer.

Strong Coffee octothorpe one

Unfiltered stream of consciousness: Start time: 2:35.

Ready...go!

Hannibal [the two famous Hannibals: Hannibal called Canibal, and Hannibal who attacked the Romans over the alps on elephants and thusly took them completely by surprise. They expected Hannibal, they expected the alps. The elephants took them completely agawp]. whoop, have a banana. The alps are a mountain range in, near, around, and outside of Sitzerland. Swiss cheese. Switzerland had the Swiss, and they didn't speak Swedish. Sweden speakers of the Swedish. Swedes weren't neutral. I don't even know if Sweden had been invented when there were any World Wars. Switzerland was neutral. They were neutral, and so all the people from The Great Escape wanted to go to Switzerland and buy Swiss Army Knives and holey cheese. Not holy. Holy meaning sanctified. (Not sanctimonious. Nor sacrosanct. Although sacrosanct would, conceivably, be closer. Sacrement and sanctify and sacrosanct seem to have things in common.) The Great Escape, where the Aussie got away without incident. Coincidence? Probably. Australia, like siberia, was the place where bastard imperialists of ancient days sent their criminals. The criminals proliferated, and now they have their own countries. Australia has the lowest murder rate--apparently--and Siberia has tigers. [Tigers of siberia are more bigger than Tigers of India. India has all the small versions of bigger animals. Like elephants.] Where did Hannibal, not a canibal, get his elephants? There aren't any elephants in Europe. He must have imported them from India. Where everyone is castrated, and that's why they speak in high voices. {David Beckham. Craig Furguson. Broken DVD player. Fixed DVD player. Uncle needs a hard drive.}

Ending time: 2:45.

Whoa...