I.
The page where my interest was lost, premier and pretentious, a great grey gust of gibberish. Phileas Fogged down in the derails. Do you remember when we named the dog Indiana? A wooden chalice chosen holy? On the red line to work the other day I saw people whose skin color was not the same as mine, and that didn't tell me anything deep about who they were as people. I did not try and imagine who they were. I did not smugly appropriate their experiences. Whether or not they're American is not important. I hope they had a phenomenal day in the wondrous weather. Unless they're jerks. Then, I hoped they all stubbed all of their toes. Last night in the undulating darkness of the thesaurused night my unconcsciousness theatred a script of fancy. I shan't describe it to you. Orwell says happiness can only exist in acceptance. I am jubilant that this book is not for me. II. My eyes are in the text while my heart is in the kitchen the bedroom on a beach somewhere with a better book. The exasperating sea of prose summed up by the coda where the writer admits having nothing interesting to say He wins awards for writing about how he doesn't know how to write beginnings or endings. The middles are choppy, too. III. The difference between experience and writing about experience is more than perspective. Is more than let me tell you. Is more than show. No matter how much I enjoy a turkey and cheese sandwich, no matter my fascination with the post-credit adventures in Super Mario Odyssey, if all I have to say is ass bounce reveals moon twinkling over top hat while the crumbs catch in my goatee, then that is all I should say. I'm not sure how to start telling you how much I enjoy sitting in the solitude of my air conditioned house collecting purple snowflakes while the turkey and cheese sandwich that I am unsure how to describe sits on the plate whose importance I am having trouble describing to you reminds me of a dream I'm not going to tell you about because I lack the ability makes me wish I was white water rafting while this book fell behind the shelves confusing the lonely spider.
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InteractionalityAn ongoing conversation between writers and the text that they're reading. Archives
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