I just googled the phrase “foo foo forest,” which I thought I’d invented, out of boredom. I love the neighborly vibe on my block. I like to hear adults with children have conversations while my windows are open.
I relaxed with one of my roommates while we both made ourselves seperate but equal dinners.
I put in a decent day at work. I had fake stress/ennui during the early evening, but it’s passed. The bad soup I’d made improved with time.
I started reading Viktor Shklovsky’s Energy of Delusion: A Book on Plot today. It’s about Tolstoy, who I’ve never read.
He has a lot of single-sentence paragraphs that are dramatic because they’re single-sentence paragraphs, but often will contain revelations of only minor drama. Or else the drama comes from their accrued significance, you know what I’m saying, they build on each other. It reminds me of David Markson.
Every literary work is a brand-new montage of the world, a new unpredictability, a new occurrence.
That one stands nicely on its own, though. A lot of them do. Forget what I said before about minor drama.
This is my favorite sequence so far:
The writer uses plot to cleanse the world.
It’s as if the world gets entangled and dusty.
The writer wipes the mirror of consciousness with his plot.
I wonder where I will be when I finally read Anna Karenina.