July 4 still, musings and on reading and Arthur Miller

There's something to being alone up here, a young writer, reading. An author, amongst all this solitude and silence, can pluck loudly strings that send you, as a writer, flying. I was confident with Snyder, and now manic and self-absorbed with Miller.

I was envisioning taking speed-typing classes, so I could keep up with my thoughts, so I could let the original flow flow -- so I could be hyper. Instead, I just eat lots of food to slow down the flood, and watch a pen slowly sweep up after the last tracings of dust in which a party had ensued but you could only guess at it. There will be no typewriters up here -- I'll have to find a way to send all that energy into little sentences, or to somehow hold them in stasis as my slow mule of a hand plods silently along and I pick up the gems left on the road by my leprechaun mind.