a note on method

i have been fielding all sorts of questions about my manner of postage, especially in this past week. by which i mean: here, i will tell you a meaningless story of exactly the sort for which you never did and never would ask.

the dialing-up-from-the-flat plan has materialised only into bald patches on my scalp and, therefore, i am growing ever colder as i sit on my little stoop, pound out my little words, and dispel them into my little aether. this, coupled with the lilly-livered nature of my compy's battery, has made it necessary for me to do most of my composition in some warm place (like my heart) and use the frozen wasteland for google searches and other resident evils. with the composing elsewhere comes the *editing* elsewhere, the bounds of which have never been measured. moreover, having been surgically removed therefrom, i have sometimes decided to act as though we were separate entities—and leave the computer at home, alone. i tell both it and myself that this rashly trusting act of abandonment is for its own good; as it is, i must hose it down once every three days. on such occasions when it is not giving me very real warmth, i return to the Ways of the Notebook, which have served me well in my day. this was, of course, the case while i was traveling/in Romania. however, the transposition process which follows on the heels of such takes a close second to the editorial plodding. despite all of this, i cannot bear to place things out of order.

so, patient ones, that is why i am here today to tell you this story—and why, only today, it is, in actuality, today.