A long time ago I noticed that in my head I narrate to myself as if I were writing a book, sometimes in first person past tense, sometimes in third present. Then I think that I should write a journal entry later in the day about what I just narrated. But, I never do.

The search for Tree Number One has ended! It is not the White Tree of Gondor, nor is it the huge tree at the Mount Pleasant entrance. It's just any old tree, but it's TREE NUMBER ONE.

What's worth protesting? Hot cocoa made with water instead of milk.

"it was me at the foot, and the czar at the head"

I have decided that it is not necessary to learn Russian, as speaking Russian makes my mouth incredibly dry. I think that referring to it as "mother Russia," repeatedly listening to the national anthem, and memorizing the names of all the Russian czars should be sufficient to pay my respect. "Pay my respect?" I make it sound as if Russia has died... eh. All this Russia-ness lately has reminded me of that song I used to play on the piano, way back when. It said something about sleeping in the czar's bed, sleeping in the czar's wife's bed, eating food with names that make my mouth dry, and Rasputin. Rasputina. Gingerbread Coffin. Run, run, as fast as you can. Enough of this crazy talk...

Since my last post does not seem to exist as it should, I shall duplicate it here:
Is Marian a terrible name for a monkey?

And, the other brief, meaningless post which didn't show up:
Curses on angelfire! I need a new layout anyways.

Now, what was it that inspired me to write at the moment? Damn, I shouldn't even have tried writing in this blog... I should have channeled the inspiration into my piece for creative writing, "Daydream Told by Another." Along the lines of "Is Marian a good name for a monkey?" (in particular, an accordion-playing monkey with a little red suit and gold buttons) is the other problem of naming: finding a set of three names which translate well from Italian, to French, to English while still conveying the right sort of feeling.

Peter, Robert, Richard, William
Pietro, Roberto, Riccardo, Guglielmo
Pierre, Robert, Richard, Guillaume

daydream told by another

Of course, I can see how it may be intriguing that my accordian-playing monkey, little Marian in his red suit and cap with the shiny buttons, writes songs for me to play on my own accordion. How is it that a monkey may write music good enough for passerby to toss money into my hat? Think of what they say about the ten thousand monkeys who could type for ten thousand years and would eventually reproduce the complete works of Shakespeare. What of all the pages and pages typed before Shakespeare's works are reproduced? Are all of those pages full of gibberish, stuff good enough only for the trash can? Or, if you look closely enough, read between the lines of meaningless nonsense, would you find the poetry of Shelley, or Keats, or Dickinson? If you expand your definition of what is acceptable to be typed by monkeys who don't understand one way or another, expand it so that Shakespeare, Shelley, Keats, and Dickinson are all acceptable, is not more probable that in ten thousand years, when you comb through the pages you will likely find more you consider of value than if you just considered Shakespeare, and Shakespeare alone, to be of value? Now, what if everything the monkey typed was acceptable and of value, except for words with the letter Z? Now, when the time comes to throw out the worthless gibberish, you will have pages and pages of valuable and worthy writing, at least by that particular definition. As you know, however, much gibberish can be formed without the letter Z. Which writings are of worth is something determined by the one who will skim through them and throw out the ones believed to be unworthy.

Me, I consider all of it to be worthy. Exit my analogy of ten thousand monkeys typing for ten thousand years and focus now on Marian. You consider the notes he plays on his accordion, the ones I have recently duplicated for you, to be of worth, to be the most musical. I say that everything little Marian does is life, the most musical experience of all. Marian's music is not written consciously, though you may be impressed enough to think so. Marian's music is composed in the same way he does everything else, by a desire to perform a certain act. Marian, so long as he does what he wishes, is in the same state of doing what he is driven to whether he is playing songs, biting squirrels, collecting shiny gum wrappers in his paws, or eating mushrooms that he shouldn't. Marian, get away from the mushroom!