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[Aug. 29th, 2011|10:58 am] |
This morning's waking dream took place with the baby whistling and gurgling beside me,
and the cat at the toilet window leaping tentatively over me,
and the wife outside of the house inhaling fresh air unavailable, temporarily, to me.
There was a game of football, played with snap and skill, each movement of
each idiot a form of higher, primitive, grace (where do you think we came from anyway? - only a few generations back we would have needed physicality (and its inherent spirituality) together with lightening understanding of others' intentions within the space, the field, the game).
And later I hung around like a desperate old fool, trying to get a gig at the drummer's stool. Just give me a chance - I have new sticks ready to pound the skins and reverberate the nostalgia, the country air. I then, blindfolded, beat out a rhapsody, with intelligent and arrogant bass in accompany - every movement sliding out of the clutches of the predictable.
"So" I enquired - "have I earned the title?" "Nah, mate you are too old. - We are giving it to Nigel"
Then I woke up, acutely aware of my arthritis - out of the game. |
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[Aug. 29th, 2011|05:43 pm] |
Tā tad: memo to the bank's head of excellence: "virtually virtual = real"
Bet vispār vajag izdomāt citu īpašības vārdu - nav vairs efektīvas izolēšanas starp īsto un virtuālo: tīkli sen kļuva saistoši - it īpaši tā virtuālā nauda, par ko mēs cīnāmies. |
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