I thought last night—in bed , maybe?—(I’ve been noticing lately how all the reasoning, all the words, go away at certain low-brain (brain-shutting-down?) times—as going to nap or to sleep, how images just pop to mind (R__—but I was thinking to myself before I saw whom it was, “some nutter”—is mowing lawn right now. My lawn could use to be mowed, too, but you don’t see me doing it now. Grass is probably still too wet)—or how, when I’m exhausted from being sick, I don’t really have any interesting thoughts then. I think I’ve said before that it’s a little remarkable that the whole intellectual realm, all the ideas and philosophy and science and literary, etc.—all of that matters to (and is accessible to) only those who feel well, who aren’t sick. All my blogging wouldn’t mean much to me once I get sick.
[From journal of Sat., 23 July 2016, Journal 232, page 32]
MonkeyMoonMachine 