Gland Prix

I did decree…

Blow it off and blow it

Within the confines of my phone does rest a routine of software that when invoked will record each phrase and mumble that I craft.

Clumsy of mind and physique I neglect this code and pay the price. A few button presses today and I could have put down that idea. No, it was not a revelation or insight. It was an idea and a starting point. And that’s all you need.

Luckily, I have many notebooks. Paper and bits. I have sketched and written pretty regularly since about 5th grade and have lots of material. Only now can I review it quickly and with augmented serendipity. Hardware and software make it so.

Still, there is a sting and a kind of bafflement when you realize that a few moments of idle driving, a clutch of seconds requiring attention, and that little lightning bolt that arced across the inner contour of your skull is gone. But how it glowed! What the fuck just happened? Am I in Texas? Where’s my pinky finger gone off to?

From the notebooks: In praise of that forgotten idea, even if, given its unknowability, could very well have been not much more than a tagline for an imaginary carbonated beverage, come now some potentially equivalent in quality and charm ideas/sketches/pictures

1. A Breakfast cereal: Pretzel Blasts!

2. Imagined Titles:

   • “Things that were Said Before the Shooting Started – ‘Want Not: Shon’t Not’”

   • ‘Nuff Nuns: The St. Albans Story

3. An illustration of the Twilight Hamburger Lounge on a hill with a car coming down a road on the hill with the headlamps visible in the fog.

4. Double self-portrait: I am Eric Struggs. Who is Eric Struggs other than the tautological self? A pen name for the visual author. A rugged lothario who keeps time for no man. A film noir digital Dick. The avant Krebs-bearded hero of the pitiful and desperately lonely. A shadow with teeth.

(What the fuck?) Indeed.

Also, This picture from months back, found while skimming that bardo state of the Lightroom library: