I have yet to complete my Masters in Procrastination because I keep finding other things that get in the way.
I have just finished reading Luke Rhinehart’s The Dice Man, which I found under a bridge on London’s South Bank for two pounds fifty.
It was very fragmented and fragmentary* and all in all a read. I’ve not got round to finding the relevant adjective yet.
It reminded me of American Psycho in its fragmentation, although stylistically it kept swinging between forms and persons.
American Psycho is great.
I love its lists, the postermodernity of it, and its juxtaposition of its clean, pure lifestyle with the careful bloodiness.
Part of me wants to live in a flat like Pat Bateman’s (especially in the film variant).
I love its cleanliness, its space, and its potential.
I’m terrible for clutter though. I’m even struggling to write this piece in short paragraphs. Part of me wants to run with the idea that I’m trying to put across in a different way from previously and just let each space show as much as it can, or did, or is. The same is true of the spaces I inhabit (partially prompted by Christi Craig’s thoughts on expanding the space of a short story into that of a novel – not the tendency, but the thought). My desk at work is terribly messy. My entire classroom is terribly messy. The dining table in my library, my girlfriend will (un)happily tell you, is hideously messy; you can barely use it to eat from.
That got away from me there.
I’m not sure why I struggle with keeping space space (~d/~y).
Perhaps its conceptual claustrophobia.
Today is the first day in a fair long while that I’ve had a good solid chunk of time to do whatever I want to or need to.
As you might imagine, I haven’t used that well.
I need clutter. Kibble, for readers of DADOES perhaps. Mentally.
If I have a vast number of pressures and tasks, I can flit between them pretty well. I tend to get a lot done, surprisingly quickly.
Lots of space leads to lots of nothing (done).
That’s kind of Zen.
* See Rule Three.