Time Travelling Porridge Spheres
It is difficult to know what to write today. Stripped to its bare white bones I could just type: I am back.
Whilst at the Doctor Strange cryptic level, ‘I am back’ would do at a pinch as both literal truth and higher planes metaphor, it does seem insufficient after having been away for 10 nights.
Feeding a random sample of my Scottish sojourn journal entries into an online Burroughs cut-up generator to yield a stream-of-consciousness impression of the holiday yields:
Flying into remembered wounds. Bursting into harsh blue. Waterfalls with breakfast. Fourth Reich invasion of the December cold mountain turrets. Inverlair not yet sucked by cash vampires of orbiting Disney castles. The fence sung with shadow history. Echelon spires disperse the fake culture of momentary tat. Enclosures of eager pine trees and Jedburghian Texans. The ears of Mr. and Mrs. Southwell. Smiling at future kisses. Ambitious hills permitting vegetable cravings. The peasant smoke lodge of junkie-style public schoolboys. Clan ghost music battles vicious sonic booms. Tourist forgotten standing stones. The industry of time travelling porridge spheres.
Whilst the above passages reads like nonsense and the last sentence demonstrates why cut-ups can be of limited practical value to a writer, I was planning proper entries, wordscapes and pictures relating to my trip.
However, I am now not sure if they will go up. Travel is often transforming and intensely personal, making it potentially boring to read about. It is just conceivable a few people might enjoy hearing about the Harry Potter viaduct, how to punch a fulmar, Eradour Distillery or my Tomb of Eagles dream, but at the moment I am not convinced the world needs a piece of ‘what I did on my holidays’ writing from me.
Whilst at the Doctor Strange cryptic level, ‘I am back’ would do at a pinch as both literal truth and higher planes metaphor, it does seem insufficient after having been away for 10 nights.
Feeding a random sample of my Scottish sojourn journal entries into an online Burroughs cut-up generator to yield a stream-of-consciousness impression of the holiday yields:
Flying into remembered wounds. Bursting into harsh blue. Waterfalls with breakfast. Fourth Reich invasion of the December cold mountain turrets. Inverlair not yet sucked by cash vampires of orbiting Disney castles. The fence sung with shadow history. Echelon spires disperse the fake culture of momentary tat. Enclosures of eager pine trees and Jedburghian Texans. The ears of Mr. and Mrs. Southwell. Smiling at future kisses. Ambitious hills permitting vegetable cravings. The peasant smoke lodge of junkie-style public schoolboys. Clan ghost music battles vicious sonic booms. Tourist forgotten standing stones. The industry of time travelling porridge spheres.
Whilst the above passages reads like nonsense and the last sentence demonstrates why cut-ups can be of limited practical value to a writer, I was planning proper entries, wordscapes and pictures relating to my trip.
However, I am now not sure if they will go up. Travel is often transforming and intensely personal, making it potentially boring to read about. It is just conceivable a few people might enjoy hearing about the Harry Potter viaduct, how to punch a fulmar, Eradour Distillery or my Tomb of Eagles dream, but at the moment I am not convinced the world needs a piece of ‘what I did on my holidays’ writing from me.
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