"Indications Have"

Indications have appeared that someone's reading this. Hello. Sorry about the crappy writing, but, as you may perhaps have read below, that's kind of the point of all this. I'm trying to give myself an opportunity to find out what it is I have to say by just saying a lot of the kind of stuff I always say anyway until I get bored with that and by force of my own boredom (couldn't think of a better word to replace the lame repetition, didn't try) develop something interesting to me to say: something, thus, interesting to you. Whoever you are. Probably you know me personally in one way or another; we went to one kind of school or another together. Apparently I'm academic, if you count the School of Hard Knocks (1988-1998) that I attended in conjunction with some of my semesters at Golden West College. I'm happy that I went to the SHK; what I learned there has given me lots of my favorite stories, many of which I'm reluctant to tell in such a public forum. I'm trying to embarrass myself here with the quality of my writing rather than the content of my checkered past. Now I have to start thinking about the game of Checkers and--the way my mind works--try to relate it to the thing I'm currently talking about, whatever that is. My project? Okay, what I'm doing is like a very simple game. In writing center terms, I'm publishing my freewriting. I must be very confident to do such a thing. It's possible, if I'm taking this seriously enough, that I may stumble over something in my brain that shocks and appalls not only you but also me. I'm a little worried about that. Fortunately, I have equal confidence that this limitless self-absorption, this idea that if I keep typing something will emerge from the simple wonderfulness of my awesome writer's mind, will drive readers away the way a mumbler on the bus gets the three or four seats around him cleared simply by his failure to recognize that people can hear him and aren't really that interested. He keeps mumbling anyway. Sometimes I listen (sometimes it really can't be helped; buses aren't that big, and some folks mumble loudly) and it doesn't make a damn bit of sense to me, much the way these sentences are starting to fail to make a damn bit of sense. I'm continuing to type anyway, because every now and then some of the phrases that drop from the non-self-conscious minds on the bus, those folks wearing clothes that have gotten stiff as sails (I'm thinking now of the person I see every now and then whose gender I can not at all determine; apparent body of a woman [though it's hard to tell under the layers that people who live on the street have to wear] but bearded like a boy; I keep thinking of The Waste Land then shuddering with guilt at my translation into a literary figure of this evidently suffering actual person) find themselves (as I start to fall behind my sentence; are you keeping up better than I am?) in some of my actual poetry. They've given me images I couldn't have found myself--in, let me remind us both, just the way that this particular stretch of rambling may generate unpredictable phrases and images. This, of course, returns us to my fear that the unpredictable images and phrases, being out of my control, might embarrass me. I'm facing that fear, and I'm doing in public, and maybe there's some kind of medal involved at the end of it. I don't know. I can tell you that my body is actually shaking a little as I type this. I'm a man of feeling, one of my professors once told me, and it might be that my insistence of Standard Written English grammar (the only right kind of grammar, ask any of us native users!) is a way of trying to control that emotion, so often overwhelming, into channels of, uh, communication or display or whatever I'm using all this language for. More on that later, I have no doubt. For the time being I appear to be drying up; I'm looking forward to an increase in creative stamina as one of the results of this whatever, but it hasn't seemed (weird verb construction) to (what I clearly mean [clearly? really?] is "doesn't seem to have") emerged yet.  Did James Joyce leave notes like this? Where do you suppose he left them, and did they clog the drain.