Wednesday 22 October 2003
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Pic of the day: Late. The heroes are "tiered"
Even that grand old man of journalling, Al Schroeder of
(I am still using the new and improved voice recognition software. It is indeed much better than its predecessor, but I can hardly let it run unattended. Just in the first paragraph, it mangled journalling to "doing nothing" and changed the name of Al's journal to "no fun notes". So while it helps my hand and wrist to heal, it also slows me down. And even then, I would not be surprised if it manages to sneak in some offensive phrases in the final product. I still find errors not just in my year ago entries, but also in my two years ago and three years ago entries. The problem with being your own proofreader is that you know what you meant to write, and then you read that instead of the actual text.) In all fairness, Schroeder is not lagging behind because of laziness: He has put a lot of time and energy into his superhero comic MindMistress. Even so, the very idea of not getting a daily update from one of the founding fathers of online journalling is surely a sign of the end times... And I may as well warn you right now that come November, my journal entries are likely to be very short and fluffy. (Well, unless I have something that I really really want to tell you.) In fact, regular readers will already from these few words know what I am talking about: NaNoWriMo! There is more than a week left, and I already seem to be twisted out of shape by the powerful psychological gravity field of 50 000 budding novelists preparing to write 50 000 words each. ***Today, for instance, I was on my way from work to the bus station when I suddenly chanced upon a most unusual sight. On a small self-supporting ladder or lightweight portable stairs stood a shapely woman busily doing something useful to the top of a shop window. Perhaps she was cleaning it or something, from the outside. Her backside just happened to be on the same level as my eyes. It was already a sure prize winner when she was standing up; when she was bending over, as she also did, the sight was nothing if not overwhelming to a small primate brain. I watched with the awe induced by nature's most spectacular displays, like thunderstorms or great waterfalls or giraffes, that shake a man to his foundations. I kinda like women's backsides: While scary, they are not as dangerous as breasts. Why? Perhaps because they don't have eyes? And I thought to myself: This sooo goes into the novel! Incidentally, I escaped basically unhurt, with no more physiological changes than a slight dizziness. It's not as if I actually ran into her, after all. It is a known fact that if you touch them, they will sap your strength or strike you down with an electric shock. Just ask Superman! ***And now, because this entry is not just fluffy but also short, and it is not already November, I will for you amusement read a paragraph into my microphone and not correct it at all. The text is taken from the British magazine "New Scientist". A similar argument, we never achieve true happiness through the posted of pleasure, says Unlike, because we can never be truly comfortable way we are in the pleasure of the state. If you were experiencing pleasure it's because we must needs something. The temperature. Only if we are too hot or cold we will be able to experience the pleasure of a cold drink of hot bath. Once or temperature has standardized, we are in different to either experience. If we are in no danger I need of any kind, we are in a comfortable but in different states. "Pleasure - sensory pleasure - is not happiness, it is joy," says And I. "The state of indifference is what I call happiness." So now you know how the Japanese made those instruction booklets that you remember... Not to mention that you can use this for all your alien dialog when you write science fiction. "Take us two you leather!" "We will come queer your planned!" "Top or we would use the Ray-Ban!" |
A little snow. Gray. |
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