Wastey my own timey… As it should be

I have to say I was d### productive this week. So, I’m celebrating. How? Generally, by aggressively doing nothing productive. I’ve surfed the web–because I feel like it, I’ve bought 2 books (Green Mars and Blue Mars, to complement the Red Mars monkey lovingly placed on my back by my sweetie pie), I’ve eaten half a pound of green beans (it’s OK; I live alone this week) and a package of ramen and half a bowl of shredded wheat, I’ve watched some completely banal TV, and I’ve wallowed in the beauty of my cluttered abode. Surfing slate.com, I found this lovely essay, about some dead German guy. It’s about writing, and it seems to speak to me. I’m enjoying its no-nonsense approach to prose. One memorable phrase from the author of the column (who seems quite skilled at this writing gig):

To make an idea come alive in a sentence, some of its words must be left for dead: The penalty for trying to bring them all alive is preciousness at best.

I fear that is all. But I’m restless and enjoying my distractibility, so there may be more later.

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