I am insomniac; hear me meander.
I haven't got a single amazon.com review for Postcards. Even if the review read wtf? this book sux!!!—all right, I will have to familiarize myself with internet-speak before I can parody it, I understand—I would still be able to think to myself, "Hey! Somebody actually read it! Whoa!" As it is, I resign myself to feeling unloved, unnoticed, and generally melancholy . . . except that I have personally sold copies to people, so that doesn't work at all. Ah, well. Eventually, I'll hit on a functional guilt-trip. Eventually.
Till then, I'll listen to my new music.
audiography-surfing earlier today led me to discover the traditional and new-minted songs of Great Big Sea, a band from St. John's in Newfoundland that
spectre_general and his wife who does not yet have a livejournal had recommended to me in the past. They are fantastic. "The Chemical Worker's Song (Process Man)," "Recruiting Sargeant," and "Fisherman's Lament" are now stuck on more or less permanent loop in my head, while "Nothing out of Nothing," "French Perfume," and "Feel It Turn" are competing for space. As soon as I have something that resembles pocket money, I know where I'll spend it: I need more Great Big Sea. Food? Eh. Negligible. It's books and music that are critical.
I haven't got a single amazon.com review for Postcards. Even if the review read wtf? this book sux!!!—all right, I will have to familiarize myself with internet-speak before I can parody it, I understand—I would still be able to think to myself, "Hey! Somebody actually read it! Whoa!" As it is, I resign myself to feeling unloved, unnoticed, and generally melancholy . . . except that I have personally sold copies to people, so that doesn't work at all. Ah, well. Eventually, I'll hit on a functional guilt-trip. Eventually.
Till then, I'll listen to my new music.
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