Hello there! I'm good, yourself?
This is just to inform you that I haven't written a fucking thing in
months. I had a software notifier written to inform the world whenever
my genius graced it with a fresh effusion, and the bastard thing
mutated into a worm and started attacking Iranian government research
facilities out of sheer boredom. I honestly don't know what to do. I
tried gin, in quantities varying from the indulgent to the
life-threatening, but found I couldn't type properly - I mean, I woke
up one afternoon to find that I'd written this -
and
the dimension of succession
generally is an arrière-
pensée, draining
the impact
of this confrontation by
insisting on the context
of a linear dimension
through time. Stokes manages
in spite of this
arbitrary self-
impoverishment (he
has lost, after all, effective use
of two
out of four
dimensions), both
to see with accuracy and
to feel the full emotional relevance
of what we see - the Cortile
d’Onore at Urbino (seen almost
completely through
his eyes)
was an extraordinary experience, and
one in which I felt a full
deployment
of my entire
capacities for response.
- but I'm buggered if I know what it's supposed to mean. I'm at my
wits' end, to be honest. Do you think I should take drugs?
Dominic
|