Pamplona

No idea what to write (last night), just felt like writing. I like the notebook and the feeling of the pen. The blog itself, it looks okay, I guess: I'm a little uncertain. It could use some pictures, maybe, or I don't know what--another column? One with links to quizzes and personality tests, credit scores and acai berry miracles? Yes, definitely, this would help center the text, throw it into relief; too much text making too many demands--this is the problem with prose forms on-line. It's why I "went over" to poetry but the thing is:

If it's possible to read Les Misérables on-line, then readable on-line prose forms exist.

Maybe it's a matter of spacing.

Do I miss sitting in cafés talking and talking about all manner of things including art? I have done this, you know. Was it better than coming home, being alone, going on-line? In some ways, at least for me, it was closely equivalent: what to do that's interesting at night when I'm not working (writing); not exactly wasting time, but spending it very freely, the intellect keeping the whip hand over something speedy and bright-hued: highly caffeinated discourse at a wobbly table; low ceilings, candles, and a flagstoned floor; a stack of paperbacks in which the word Hegelian appears, cumulatively, at least two hundred times, balanced at every elbow. On the sound system, something seventies. A waitress with an ankle tattoo pauses between the tables; suddenly all the paperback books take off in a swirl like carousel horses, the notes in their margins flying up, pounding down. The crowded cafés where readers sat and dipped triangles of pita bread into hummus and struggled to articulate critiques of esoteric views: I miss them, yes, naturally--with a natural nostalgia for the "scenes of my youth" and those friends, those views. I miss a world before WiFi at café tables, before a phone at every hand--a world that was noisy but so much quieter: Imagine, sometimes it was even possible to hear a page turn.