"i always just feel that a writer writes and like a snail leaves this snotty trail that once dried can look in moonlight like a path of diamond dust," Edward Mycue. Mycue is a local. Lives in San Francisco, I think. Being as I live in Berkeley, that's local. I often think of my writing as the passage a worm leaves in the mud. Could be it'll fossilize, be museum material. Could be it'll go unnoticed. But there is all sorts of beauty that goes unseen. As there are horrors unmourned.

I like "found" poetry, the finding of poems in texts (oral or written) that were not created to be art but which someone discovered to have beauty, surprise, thus re-present as Art. I think of photography as Found Art.

The cats have discovered me at my desk and I'm getting leary. One errant foot and the whole day is deleted.

Yesterday evening I discovered the world of political weblogs, was impressed, anyway, by the extent of it. Golly but these people keep up a pace! Tom Tomorrow. Instapundit. On the left side of the Instapundit page there's a long list of links to other blogs. Wow. But, yeah, it is easy to update this thing. And it's not like you have to write some fully argued essay or anecdote. One can, after all, just throw up a link to someone else's.