I found myself riding my bike to the Downtown Mall, where I'd like to spend more of my time. At the Mudhouse, after gratuitous computer-propelled time expenditure, I found myself chatting with Farrell's friend blond Mark about the prospects of starting a zine. He has a photocopier and would like to put it to use. But he's also aware that lots of people TALK about starting zines without actually DOING anything. I suggested that, to successfully create a zine, he would have to act as though he would be getting no help at all from anyone, and that the only people he should involve should be people who have material ready to give him NOW. I gave as a case in point my websites, the content of which is entirely generated by me except for a few minor contributions by Jessika.
I found myself taking a bath and reading more from a novella compilation, especially a work by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn, the name of which escapes me, but it's about a man renting part of a weathered old cabin from and living with an old woman in a land devoured by peat mines. The story was most interesting and even evocative, but I stopped somewhere in the midst of it to take a nap. I need to read more; sad though this might sound to you, I almost never read fiction anymore.
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