A Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office. Literally, the title given to a cat living officially with Britain's Prime Minister. He or she is employed as a civil servant, with tenure, I suppose, and costs at least one hundred pounds annually. I don't believe the British elect their Chief Mousers, anymore--historically, candidates have left the United Kingdom in the death throes of unbounded spraying, and the smell doesn't dissipate for years.
The latest cat, named for Sibyl Fawlty, died recently. If she's anything like her namesake, it's no wonder the Prime Minister didn't like her. Sibyl probably tied the phones lines all day, gossiping about all the neighborhood alley cats, and idly ran the government, with a frustrating sarcastic yowl, much to the chagrin of the former's own inept and inhospitable flailing.
There was much ado when Mr. Obama rescued a dog for employ as consort and companion to the White House and it's current family, but we don't have an official title, do we? The British have a great sense of humor.
Additionally, I have learned that the Prime Minister's name is Gordon Brown, and that many of Britain's important officials live on a place called Downing Street. Thank you, Sibyl, for broadening my horizons.
Thursday
For the last three or four hours...
...I have been reading The Aeneid. The start of IV straight through VIII.
I do not recommend this. Do you know how you feel when, after you've been on your feet for several hours, your legs and joints become sore? And then you sit down, and can't get back up?
My brain cannot get back up.
I do not recommend this. Do you know how you feel when, after you've been on your feet for several hours, your legs and joints become sore? And then you sit down, and can't get back up?
My brain cannot get back up.
Tuesday
Runnin' Away
Your desert island seven? I'm thinking, of course, about the seven albums I'd have the unlikely fortune of bringing with me when I'm indefinitely stranded on some tiny beach in the pacific ocean. These really only matter if I can figure out how to power a record player with coconuts, but it's the thought that counts in the end.
Sly and the Family Stone are so completely mellow that I'm surprised their greatest hits compilation cannot hope to fight for a spot on my list. Most of these songs are impossible to enjoy more than once in a few days, though, so that might contribute to whatever sympathetic feeling currently eludes me. The ones you don't hear every other hour on the radio station, however, and Hot Fun In The Summertime, would be sorely missed.
On some other note, it's much easier for me to smoke and type when the cigarette is in my left hand.
I mixed a drink today that I really enjoy, and wonder what to call it. Since I'm not suppose to dip into the restaurant stock I usually go for the well stuff, which is a little harder to account for and much cheaper to resupply. Gin and ginger ale--one part gin and two parts ginger ale, as it seems to be--and a slice of orange squeezed in. Drop in whatever's left of the orange and finish this off when your cup's empty, the meat soaks up the flavors real nice.
Joni Mitchell is on my desert island seven, and her contemporary welsh prodigy, who I've mentioned many times already. Listen to Free Man in Paris and Jem's I Always Knew back to back and tell me that she isn't cut from the same cloth, er, playing in the same groove.
Beatrice is away to Los Angeles for almost a week. Will he be a different man when he returns? Unlikely. He has a blog that I follow, as discretly as possible, but since it's common knowledge I've long spoiled any chance of reading about myself on it. Which is a shame, because if he has any grievances beyond what debts I haven't paid him, I don't know about them. Including whether or not he's been awake on nights when Lovely and I have spent intimate time together in my bed, an arm's length from the one he sometimes snores in.
He complains about other things on this blog, however, and quite honestly it's the steam of those minute frustrations that also makes him unbearable at times. Read his blog, which is fizzling out (no surprise), and you meet a bitter stranger whose infatuations last until they let him down. He started it to comment on life through his glasses, and ultimately discovered he was recording a log of his personal failures, which continue to depress rather than inspire or motivate. I suppose, given the volume that Beatrice perversely fascinates me, that I use this space to complain a little, too. But maybe, if I'm still writing here in a few years, this blog will document those dusty details I have no hope of remembering, instead of the discouraging feelings I didn't chance to change.
It is the middle of July. In just over two months, Beatrice's blog with be a year old.
Sly and the Family Stone are so completely mellow that I'm surprised their greatest hits compilation cannot hope to fight for a spot on my list. Most of these songs are impossible to enjoy more than once in a few days, though, so that might contribute to whatever sympathetic feeling currently eludes me. The ones you don't hear every other hour on the radio station, however, and Hot Fun In The Summertime, would be sorely missed.
On some other note, it's much easier for me to smoke and type when the cigarette is in my left hand.
I mixed a drink today that I really enjoy, and wonder what to call it. Since I'm not suppose to dip into the restaurant stock I usually go for the well stuff, which is a little harder to account for and much cheaper to resupply. Gin and ginger ale--one part gin and two parts ginger ale, as it seems to be--and a slice of orange squeezed in. Drop in whatever's left of the orange and finish this off when your cup's empty, the meat soaks up the flavors real nice.
Joni Mitchell is on my desert island seven, and her contemporary welsh prodigy, who I've mentioned many times already. Listen to Free Man in Paris and Jem's I Always Knew back to back and tell me that she isn't cut from the same cloth, er, playing in the same groove.
Beatrice is away to Los Angeles for almost a week. Will he be a different man when he returns? Unlikely. He has a blog that I follow, as discretly as possible, but since it's common knowledge I've long spoiled any chance of reading about myself on it. Which is a shame, because if he has any grievances beyond what debts I haven't paid him, I don't know about them. Including whether or not he's been awake on nights when Lovely and I have spent intimate time together in my bed, an arm's length from the one he sometimes snores in.
He complains about other things on this blog, however, and quite honestly it's the steam of those minute frustrations that also makes him unbearable at times. Read his blog, which is fizzling out (no surprise), and you meet a bitter stranger whose infatuations last until they let him down. He started it to comment on life through his glasses, and ultimately discovered he was recording a log of his personal failures, which continue to depress rather than inspire or motivate. I suppose, given the volume that Beatrice perversely fascinates me, that I use this space to complain a little, too. But maybe, if I'm still writing here in a few years, this blog will document those dusty details I have no hope of remembering, instead of the discouraging feelings I didn't chance to change.
It is the middle of July. In just over two months, Beatrice's blog with be a year old.
Saturday
Friday
"In life her name was Nerissa."
This is a short one. if you google that phrase, with the quotations specifying the search, my blog is the only result you get.
The crash happened just up the road from my rural home. i remember waiting for the bus that morning, seeing the flashing lights where the street intersected. the tree that they hit still stands all by itself, the only tree fifty feet in either direction. tar immortalizes the scars left in the trunk.
it was an icy day, and my friends were just up there, dead or dying.
That day's left me screwed up, in places, at times.
Jem - "You will make it through." My immortal, to her My Immortal.
The crash happened just up the road from my rural home. i remember waiting for the bus that morning, seeing the flashing lights where the street intersected. the tree that they hit still stands all by itself, the only tree fifty feet in either direction. tar immortalizes the scars left in the trunk.
it was an icy day, and my friends were just up there, dead or dying.
That day's left me screwed up, in places, at times.
Jem - "You will make it through." My immortal, to her My Immortal.
Wednesday
the first song I've ever tried writing
is locked in, as of this moment. Beatrice has problems with some of the lines, but doesn't understand the approach I've taken to it, a tongue-and-cheek satire of our shared experiences with a corporate video production office. He assures me, nonetheless, that it's an indie runaway hit.
I don't know how accurate his judgment of ground-level songwriting/musicianship is, but I'm flattered all the same. He and Karfilov both have begun to amuse themselves with song titles and lyrics, and some of their work actually gives me hope. Beatrice has currently discarded any ambitions that involve actual mastery of an instrument, instead yielding to his appropriate calling as the Singer. I still wish he would sit at the drum set, which collects dust in our moldy basement, but he'd rather shine a light into our pool of limited resources and see who foolishly surfaces. For my part, I can bang a bar chord, which in time will blossom into bigger and better things. Without sounding too self-serving, I'd also like to add that my own lyrics are capable of complex rhymes and rounder thoughts, but I might be speaking too soon. I'm the only one that's put living music to anything, at any rate.
i turned in a paper today, and began to doubt it as soon as the subject fell into the classroom's open forum. We'll see about this.
I had a strange dream last week involving two black widow spiders. They were both male, even though one was black and red, like the female. They were homosexual, wrapping a web tight around them like lovers under a comforter. I wonder exactly what this means. Taken literally, these were two of a specie of spider, engaged in a coital act that naturally means the death of the lesser. In this case, though, there was no female to complete a mortal transaction. It was a beautiful thing to dream, in HD, but when I came to the details left me puzzled. There were other, more significant dreams that night, but I don't remember them anymore.
I still haven't had the courage to order from Honest Tom.
A revelation! The joke is, or has been, that the world's best golfer is a black man, while the world's best rapper is white. Funny, because it reverses heartily established stereotypes. Forty years ago, however, the world's best rapper was white, too (Bob Dylan), while the world's best guitar player was a black man. I think guitar is more badass, but that doesn't mean that a multi-million dollar Nike contract won't get a man laid just as quickly. Karfilov and Mao were quick to point out that Tiger Woods is half-Asian, but I don't feel like this is a big deal to whoever made the original, witty, observation.
I am embroiled in an internet game, which I am too ready too admit. But I've spent more time with my computer lately, though she's not happy with me. Neither is Lovely, who I haven't seen in over a week. We talked for a long time last night. Over the course of our conversation she slipped slowly away, because she was drunk. But there may be hope for us yet.
The second song I'll ever try writing may be about her.
I don't know how accurate his judgment of ground-level songwriting/musicianship is, but I'm flattered all the same. He and Karfilov both have begun to amuse themselves with song titles and lyrics, and some of their work actually gives me hope. Beatrice has currently discarded any ambitions that involve actual mastery of an instrument, instead yielding to his appropriate calling as the Singer. I still wish he would sit at the drum set, which collects dust in our moldy basement, but he'd rather shine a light into our pool of limited resources and see who foolishly surfaces. For my part, I can bang a bar chord, which in time will blossom into bigger and better things. Without sounding too self-serving, I'd also like to add that my own lyrics are capable of complex rhymes and rounder thoughts, but I might be speaking too soon. I'm the only one that's put living music to anything, at any rate.
i turned in a paper today, and began to doubt it as soon as the subject fell into the classroom's open forum. We'll see about this.
I had a strange dream last week involving two black widow spiders. They were both male, even though one was black and red, like the female. They were homosexual, wrapping a web tight around them like lovers under a comforter. I wonder exactly what this means. Taken literally, these were two of a specie of spider, engaged in a coital act that naturally means the death of the lesser. In this case, though, there was no female to complete a mortal transaction. It was a beautiful thing to dream, in HD, but when I came to the details left me puzzled. There were other, more significant dreams that night, but I don't remember them anymore.
I still haven't had the courage to order from Honest Tom.
A revelation! The joke is, or has been, that the world's best golfer is a black man, while the world's best rapper is white. Funny, because it reverses heartily established stereotypes. Forty years ago, however, the world's best rapper was white, too (Bob Dylan), while the world's best guitar player was a black man. I think guitar is more badass, but that doesn't mean that a multi-million dollar Nike contract won't get a man laid just as quickly. Karfilov and Mao were quick to point out that Tiger Woods is half-Asian, but I don't feel like this is a big deal to whoever made the original, witty, observation.
I am embroiled in an internet game, which I am too ready too admit. But I've spent more time with my computer lately, though she's not happy with me. Neither is Lovely, who I haven't seen in over a week. We talked for a long time last night. Over the course of our conversation she slipped slowly away, because she was drunk. But there may be hope for us yet.
The second song I'll ever try writing may be about her.
Saturday
ghosties in my dreams
This is not the first time, even recently, that I've woken up unsettled because of the ghosts in my dreams.
In this particular dream the ghosts were not spirits of any dead I recognized, but they were trying to get my attention. We were in a tall, old house, nestled snugly into a green cliff face so that you looked out, past the winding road which restrained the little yard to within it's wrought-iron perimeter, and saw a vast valley that spread out far beyond and below you. If you've ever driven through the hills of Appalachia you know what I'm talking about.
I say the house is tall, because it is. We've just bought it and we arrive to inspect it. The drive is steep, the house is steeper. There's a path running up behind the house which I use to gain access to a crow's nest-type lookout on top of the three-story building--and from here I realize the house literally leans forward, making this a dangerous place to be. I break one of the aging wooden rails trying to get down.
The ghost doesn't appear right away. Of course, when we were buying the house we heard the stories, but Dad laughs at them. He doesn't believe. I'm taking pictures of everything and flashes of a little boy show up in one. Nobody else sees it. And then I actually start to see the boy, at first here and there. He courage builds gradually. Finally, I'm the only one seeing him tramp up and down the stairs, and I'm chasing him around trying to get a picture, while my family which doesn't believe me is cleaning the house up, or fawning over it's more magnificent features. The boy is a trickster, and lets me get close, or shows up in a photograph, only to disappear when I'm about to snap the lens, or when I run to my mother to show her my proof. The boy enjoys playing with me, and I'm rather frustrated with him.
Outside things get dark, but that's not because it's late. Clouds are rolling in and Dad decides that if it thunderstorms we're going to have to stay the night, because navigating the hilly roads would be dangerous. This is when the boy starts to get creepy. He pours a stream of water on my head from the second floor, trying to get my attention. He does it twice, actually, and Dad still ignores the fact, even though he's sitting next to me when I'm soaked. Then the ghost lowers a skillet of raw meat, like an offering to Dad, and Dad starts to change his mind. Then I actually get a decent picture of him to show Mom, who also begins to believe me. Then the boy beds down for a rest, falling asleep at the top of the stairs with a blanket.
This is when the next ghost shows up, a cavalier that dances. I only see his silhouette, or shadow, on the wall. He wears a cape and hat, and his movements are a little unnatural, the effect of that being an eerie-looking dance. Since we haven't even moved in and I've already have problems with one ghost I'm not in the mood to introduce myself to a second. This is when I wake up.
This was not a pleasant dream, and it left me feeling uneasy, especially with Beatrice and Karfilov out for the afternoon, leaving the house empty. I got a phone call from Titomo and another from one of his roommates, and they were both looking for the same person, who was supposed to be standing on my porch at the time: so I went downstairs and there's nobody waiting, of course, but the trek back up is nervous, avoiding the mirrors and the walls for fear of a shadow that is there but doesn't exist, an extra face winking at me perhaps from the window of another plane opened just over my shoulder.
In the previous dream I had, that I remember, which feature ghosties, I was visited by my Angel of Death, in the sexed-up form of an old friend of mine, who died when we were in tenth grade. In the dream I'm playing guitar in the dead of night, in the dark, and she's listening--in calf-length leather boots, fishnets, black boyshorts and evening gloves, and nothing else. She doesn't have wings, but I know it's her, my Angel of Death, in to check on me. She likes the music. Maybe she's a Muse as well. In life her name was Nerissa.
I only have Ghost Dreams here--never at Lovely's. The worst one so far was the in one which I met the Nun, our own resident ghost, who lives in a portrait of Jesus Christ that we've tacked up just below the thermostat.
In the dream she was walking around with a broken neck. Our nun hung herself, I guess, because she couldn't stand the drab convent life. That dream was unnerving, and I woke up stiffly, afraid to move, aware that she was probably watching me. I only have Ghost Dreams here because I think the Nun uses them as a means of communication. Of course, in last night's dream you could say that, the ghosts vying for my attention coincide with the attention I've lately given my past; for example, talking with an ex-girlfriend, or two. That boils the literal, supernatural factor out altogether, leaving a halfway decent explanation for my peculiar subconscious. But I have fun with it: Karfilov's girlfriend, Mao, had a dream of the Nun the night after I told her about mine.
The ghosties visit me in my dreams because I listen. Last night, I realized that if I was going to live in that house I'd become desensitived to the ghosts' plights, and subsequently to the plights of ghosts everywhere. But a nightmare is a nightmare, and waking from one is impossible to get used to.
In this particular dream the ghosts were not spirits of any dead I recognized, but they were trying to get my attention. We were in a tall, old house, nestled snugly into a green cliff face so that you looked out, past the winding road which restrained the little yard to within it's wrought-iron perimeter, and saw a vast valley that spread out far beyond and below you. If you've ever driven through the hills of Appalachia you know what I'm talking about.
I say the house is tall, because it is. We've just bought it and we arrive to inspect it. The drive is steep, the house is steeper. There's a path running up behind the house which I use to gain access to a crow's nest-type lookout on top of the three-story building--and from here I realize the house literally leans forward, making this a dangerous place to be. I break one of the aging wooden rails trying to get down.
The ghost doesn't appear right away. Of course, when we were buying the house we heard the stories, but Dad laughs at them. He doesn't believe. I'm taking pictures of everything and flashes of a little boy show up in one. Nobody else sees it. And then I actually start to see the boy, at first here and there. He courage builds gradually. Finally, I'm the only one seeing him tramp up and down the stairs, and I'm chasing him around trying to get a picture, while my family which doesn't believe me is cleaning the house up, or fawning over it's more magnificent features. The boy is a trickster, and lets me get close, or shows up in a photograph, only to disappear when I'm about to snap the lens, or when I run to my mother to show her my proof. The boy enjoys playing with me, and I'm rather frustrated with him.
Outside things get dark, but that's not because it's late. Clouds are rolling in and Dad decides that if it thunderstorms we're going to have to stay the night, because navigating the hilly roads would be dangerous. This is when the boy starts to get creepy. He pours a stream of water on my head from the second floor, trying to get my attention. He does it twice, actually, and Dad still ignores the fact, even though he's sitting next to me when I'm soaked. Then the ghost lowers a skillet of raw meat, like an offering to Dad, and Dad starts to change his mind. Then I actually get a decent picture of him to show Mom, who also begins to believe me. Then the boy beds down for a rest, falling asleep at the top of the stairs with a blanket.
This is when the next ghost shows up, a cavalier that dances. I only see his silhouette, or shadow, on the wall. He wears a cape and hat, and his movements are a little unnatural, the effect of that being an eerie-looking dance. Since we haven't even moved in and I've already have problems with one ghost I'm not in the mood to introduce myself to a second. This is when I wake up.
This was not a pleasant dream, and it left me feeling uneasy, especially with Beatrice and Karfilov out for the afternoon, leaving the house empty. I got a phone call from Titomo and another from one of his roommates, and they were both looking for the same person, who was supposed to be standing on my porch at the time: so I went downstairs and there's nobody waiting, of course, but the trek back up is nervous, avoiding the mirrors and the walls for fear of a shadow that is there but doesn't exist, an extra face winking at me perhaps from the window of another plane opened just over my shoulder.
In the previous dream I had, that I remember, which feature ghosties, I was visited by my Angel of Death, in the sexed-up form of an old friend of mine, who died when we were in tenth grade. In the dream I'm playing guitar in the dead of night, in the dark, and she's listening--in calf-length leather boots, fishnets, black boyshorts and evening gloves, and nothing else. She doesn't have wings, but I know it's her, my Angel of Death, in to check on me. She likes the music. Maybe she's a Muse as well. In life her name was Nerissa.
I only have Ghost Dreams here--never at Lovely's. The worst one so far was the in one which I met the Nun, our own resident ghost, who lives in a portrait of Jesus Christ that we've tacked up just below the thermostat.
In the dream she was walking around with a broken neck. Our nun hung herself, I guess, because she couldn't stand the drab convent life. That dream was unnerving, and I woke up stiffly, afraid to move, aware that she was probably watching me. I only have Ghost Dreams here because I think the Nun uses them as a means of communication. Of course, in last night's dream you could say that, the ghosts vying for my attention coincide with the attention I've lately given my past; for example, talking with an ex-girlfriend, or two. That boils the literal, supernatural factor out altogether, leaving a halfway decent explanation for my peculiar subconscious. But I have fun with it: Karfilov's girlfriend, Mao, had a dream of the Nun the night after I told her about mine.
The ghosties visit me in my dreams because I listen. Last night, I realized that if I was going to live in that house I'd become desensitived to the ghosts' plights, and subsequently to the plights of ghosts everywhere. But a nightmare is a nightmare, and waking from one is impossible to get used to.
Thursday
Jem
...is an amazing artist. Well, maybe not amazing. It depends on your frame of reference.
My frame is strict, really, but I have a high, high tolerance for lady singers. Don't take this the wrong way; generally, I accept them, no questions asked. I can't get enough Chrissie Hynde, especially when her voice, even in Pretenders Mode II, comes over the speakers at work (these are great songs regardless, if you accept that they're cut of a particularly different band). Milla Jovovich has cut one of my favorite albums to date, and I listen to a lot of critically-regarded material. I'm not trying to establish the dominance of my opinion, by any means. But I'd like to think that it counts, even if only a little. We'd all like to think that.
Currently, this post is fulfilling a couple of objectives. I want to write here, indifferent to the fact that no one is reading. I had a conversation today with one of the bar regulars, a "writer" some ten years' my senior, who teaches art history now, I think, and claims that writer's block has stifled his blogspot career. I refuse to believe, in the liberal medium that is available here, that writer's block (is this spelled correctly?) can dampen anybody as much as general boredom seems to, especially if one is receiving little or no feedback on his/her posts. Very frustrating.
I've had a couple of beers in me, which kills inhibition and promotes the ease of writing nothing. I'll try to keep a relatively uninteresting post short, but humor me by reading with some peculiarly interested voice. It's called, "willing suspension of disbelief," I think, and it works quite well.
3.) Ever try to type with a cigarette fixed between your middle and index fingers? It's a challenge, and a romantic one at that. The guys who do it in movies make it look like a breeze, but you're in danger of burning something, yourself or your keyboard, and classes don't review the dexterity necessary to make it work, only practice. Try it sometime.
And listen to Jem, if you get the chance. She won't change your life, but she'll mellow it just a bit.
I don't know about Lovely and I, call this the "drunken rant" bit. I Love her, but apparently not enough. I met a fellow adventurer tonight whose advice was, "better to know yourself first," which is I believe the very philosophy that I and my particular, significant other struggle over. But this woman's married at nineteen, so she must have had a hell of a headstart.
Cigarettes, homemade beer, online gaming, troubled loves, Led Zeppelin, Jem, buzz-to-drunkeness, typing with a handicapped right, class in a few hours, do-it-yourself...
something else I'll change later...
My frame is strict, really, but I have a high, high tolerance for lady singers. Don't take this the wrong way; generally, I accept them, no questions asked. I can't get enough Chrissie Hynde, especially when her voice, even in Pretenders Mode II, comes over the speakers at work (these are great songs regardless, if you accept that they're cut of a particularly different band). Milla Jovovich has cut one of my favorite albums to date, and I listen to a lot of critically-regarded material. I'm not trying to establish the dominance of my opinion, by any means. But I'd like to think that it counts, even if only a little. We'd all like to think that.
Currently, this post is fulfilling a couple of objectives. I want to write here, indifferent to the fact that no one is reading. I had a conversation today with one of the bar regulars, a "writer" some ten years' my senior, who teaches art history now, I think, and claims that writer's block has stifled his blogspot career. I refuse to believe, in the liberal medium that is available here, that writer's block (is this spelled correctly?) can dampen anybody as much as general boredom seems to, especially if one is receiving little or no feedback on his/her posts. Very frustrating.
I've had a couple of beers in me, which kills inhibition and promotes the ease of writing nothing. I'll try to keep a relatively uninteresting post short, but humor me by reading with some peculiarly interested voice. It's called, "willing suspension of disbelief," I think, and it works quite well.
3.) Ever try to type with a cigarette fixed between your middle and index fingers? It's a challenge, and a romantic one at that. The guys who do it in movies make it look like a breeze, but you're in danger of burning something, yourself or your keyboard, and classes don't review the dexterity necessary to make it work, only practice. Try it sometime.
And listen to Jem, if you get the chance. She won't change your life, but she'll mellow it just a bit.
I don't know about Lovely and I, call this the "drunken rant" bit. I Love her, but apparently not enough. I met a fellow adventurer tonight whose advice was, "better to know yourself first," which is I believe the very philosophy that I and my particular, significant other struggle over. But this woman's married at nineteen, so she must have had a hell of a headstart.
Cigarettes, homemade beer, online gaming, troubled loves, Led Zeppelin, Jem, buzz-to-drunkeness, typing with a handicapped right, class in a few hours, do-it-yourself...
something else I'll change later...
Monday
...& from the vault:
Because I feel like it:
Thursday, October 23rd, 2008:
"i am my only profile views"
"which means that i am the only one reading this and wondering what the author is like.
"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. It's difficult to do, especially when one is tired, frustrated, and quite surrounded by suicidal bottles/cans/handles/etcetera. But, at this rate I will not be getting sleep for some time, and I do not believe the temptation would improve the present so much as quite possibly numb the future. Maybe I'll bring some along to my class. The first begins at eleven (i will be five minutes late); the last ends at three (I wouldn't mind leaving five minutes early). four-hundred and twenty minutes from now is that three. It will mark twenty-four hours of uninterrupted wake, a habit I believe I am getting too intimate with.
"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. I have not refrained from reading tedious, mediocre poetry, or making vague use of haughty intellectualism. actually i will leave the poet-women alone, for reasons. one: they obviously enjoy word play, and i admire this. I am assigned to read, : they are two lady writers who seem to understand each other's unique incoherency. Incoherency? A word? dunno.
"ah...yes, quite obvious that they enjoy chewing on obscure words and assorted magnet sentences like wads of sticky bubblegum, and pop thin, bloated bubbles onto whatever is growing out of the typewriter. the more bubblicious they pack the greater the hole they punch. More ammunition, mr. master general joe! i'm bleeding through the ghosts of scabs I've picked off my back.
"She used to write poetry and She told me her secret once. The poem didn't make any sense but it was impossible to interpret reasonably so everybody assumed it was great and she took me aside and told me exactly what it meant and I've realized since then that you can pluck the smallest detail or most unlikely image out of your head and turn it into an impossible glittering mountain of wordery and wondery and nobody has to understand, not even you, and even if you do at the time it doesn't matter if you forget 'cause I guarantee she wouldn't remember the poem now if I asked her about it; or she would hate it; in the end the reader takes what he takes from the readed whether the words really matter or not and that's really the secret now, is't? If it matters to you in the instant, and somebody else thinks it beautiful, what does it matter once the instant is over excepting that that it's yours and not theirs even though they may adopt it as the most meaningful thing they've ever clung to and all you've done is spit it out to stick it to some tiny choking tree you've passed on the street?
"I think this is how Bob Dylan used to work. I think this is how these lady-poets work now, but they try too hard to be visceral. i saw nothing immortal in the words they gave to me."
and guess who just found his old livejournal account?
Thursday, October 23rd, 2008:
"i am my only profile views"
"which means that i am the only one reading this and wondering what the author is like.
"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. It's difficult to do, especially when one is tired, frustrated, and quite surrounded by suicidal bottles/cans/handles/etcetera. But, at this rate I will not be getting sleep for some time, and I do not believe the temptation would improve the present so much as quite possibly numb the future. Maybe I'll bring some along to my class. The first begins at eleven (i will be five minutes late); the last ends at three (I wouldn't mind leaving five minutes early). four-hundred and twenty minutes from now is that three. It will mark twenty-four hours of uninterrupted wake, a habit I believe I am getting too intimate with.
"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. I have not refrained from reading tedious, mediocre poetry, or making vague use of haughty intellectualism. actually i will leave the poet-women alone, for reasons. one: they obviously enjoy word play, and i admire this. I am assigned to read, : they are two lady writers who seem to understand each other's unique incoherency. Incoherency? A word? dunno.
"ah...yes, quite obvious that they enjoy chewing on obscure words and assorted magnet sentences like wads of sticky bubblegum, and pop thin, bloated bubbles onto whatever is growing out of the typewriter. the more bubblicious they pack the greater the hole they punch. More ammunition, mr. master general joe! i'm bleeding through the ghosts of scabs I've picked off my back.
"She used to write poetry and She told me her secret once. The poem didn't make any sense but it was impossible to interpret reasonably so everybody assumed it was great and she took me aside and told me exactly what it meant and I've realized since then that you can pluck the smallest detail or most unlikely image out of your head and turn it into an impossible glittering mountain of wordery and wondery and nobody has to understand, not even you, and even if you do at the time it doesn't matter if you forget 'cause I guarantee she wouldn't remember the poem now if I asked her about it; or she would hate it; in the end the reader takes what he takes from the readed whether the words really matter or not and that's really the secret now, is't? If it matters to you in the instant, and somebody else thinks it beautiful, what does it matter once the instant is over excepting that that it's yours and not theirs even though they may adopt it as the most meaningful thing they've ever clung to and all you've done is spit it out to stick it to some tiny choking tree you've passed on the street?
"I think this is how Bob Dylan used to work. I think this is how these lady-poets work now, but they try too hard to be visceral. i saw nothing immortal in the words they gave to me."
and guess who just found his old livejournal account?
Christmas Trees in July
i did not go to Honest Tom's on thursday. i barely slept the night before, and had a little trouble getting to the office with time to spare.
two years ago Beatrice and I resolved to start a band. it was a practical gesture: Beatrice is generally the dull sort who fancies the attention and wealth of an exotic profession, the likes of which a playboy writer or rock god might satisfy his yearning. Beatrice, however, is a mediocre wordsmith with a weak work ethic, and has barely learned a guitar scale in the two years since he's constructed our first riff (with, of all things, a computer program).
Beatrice has read book on god-forsaken book, has learned the rules of touring and all the studio etiquette, has nuzzled away fun and helpful anecdotes from the world's most successful musicians and rock acts--and is no closer to attaining their status than, um, that guy over there. While my own guitarering comes along slowly, any bar chord I play puts him in a place--he claims that bar chords hurt his fingers so, and subsequently has not bothered with them. my exposition should sharpen to a point, so bear with me.
We decided to title the riff, as if it belonged to a longer song. "Christmas Trees in July" was the christening biproduct of yours truly, and absolutely no progress has been made on it since. A driving, overdriven computer effect (I've never tried to learn this piece on a real guitar), a curious name, and a trippy concept is all that's left of our abandoned, anticipatory project.
"The things we want are what's tearing us apart."
Beatrice has become a source of constant irritation, much like a tick bite I've been scratching at for the last two weeks, except that you can flush a tick away and in time the poisons dissipate. Beatrice stays, sucking similarly imperceptible; and then you realize he's a parasite, disguised as a boy. It takes a surgery to rid one of a tapeworm, and those grow to immense sizes when left unchecked. Beatrice stands about five-eleven.
But I'm not here, entirely, to wail on my roommate's shortcomings. No, I had the revelation two nights ago as I lay next to Lovely, on what may be our final sleep together for at least some time. We've had problems the last year, but more specifically, in the latest months, with the needs, wants, and expectations we nurse as two individuals in a young and vigorous relationship. It's finally clear, as we shake for fear of the words that balance on the broad of our dampened lips, that our paths are increasingly divergent ones, that our singing is off key--the harmony not forgotten, but rather, impossible to recapture.
I've swallowed a Skittle whole.
"The things we want are what's tearing us apart." Lovely wants to live together. I did, too, before I thought about it. And, once I did, I decided I wanted to live on my own first. She would have been fine with this, but I resigned the lease here with Karfilov and Beatrice regardless. I don't have the time, right now, to get away from this life and start the next, let alone the exclusive one we'd share, no matter how much I Love her. And please, don't think any less of me. I Love this woman. I'm not ready to trade old circumstances for familiar ones, however, without trying on a few of my own first. Call it selfish, if that's the way you see it. There's more to this story, however, and you cannot possibly be in any high place to judge.
Lovely...she's impossible to describe. I lack the simple words and sensual grace of my friends Homer and Ovid, the only poets who could justly immortalize this woman.
Christmas Trees In July--the song one day will be about the lives we live in ignorance, the lives we live when we forsake our souls' most basic nourishments. These are miserable lives. If you dream a glamor dream that's out of reach you're keeping a Christmas Tree in July. If love is the reason you linger, and not the passion of the present but the cherished memories of happier times, you're keeping a Christmas Tree in July. They're beautiful to gaze on, these douglas firs and pines, but they're impossible to water, and the gifts that ring the treestand have either been too long gone to remember or are too distant-off to look forward to.
two years ago Beatrice and I resolved to start a band. it was a practical gesture: Beatrice is generally the dull sort who fancies the attention and wealth of an exotic profession, the likes of which a playboy writer or rock god might satisfy his yearning. Beatrice, however, is a mediocre wordsmith with a weak work ethic, and has barely learned a guitar scale in the two years since he's constructed our first riff (with, of all things, a computer program).
Beatrice has read book on god-forsaken book, has learned the rules of touring and all the studio etiquette, has nuzzled away fun and helpful anecdotes from the world's most successful musicians and rock acts--and is no closer to attaining their status than, um, that guy over there. While my own guitarering comes along slowly, any bar chord I play puts him in a place--he claims that bar chords hurt his fingers so, and subsequently has not bothered with them. my exposition should sharpen to a point, so bear with me.
We decided to title the riff, as if it belonged to a longer song. "Christmas Trees in July" was the christening biproduct of yours truly, and absolutely no progress has been made on it since. A driving, overdriven computer effect (I've never tried to learn this piece on a real guitar), a curious name, and a trippy concept is all that's left of our abandoned, anticipatory project.
"The things we want are what's tearing us apart."
Beatrice has become a source of constant irritation, much like a tick bite I've been scratching at for the last two weeks, except that you can flush a tick away and in time the poisons dissipate. Beatrice stays, sucking similarly imperceptible; and then you realize he's a parasite, disguised as a boy. It takes a surgery to rid one of a tapeworm, and those grow to immense sizes when left unchecked. Beatrice stands about five-eleven.
But I'm not here, entirely, to wail on my roommate's shortcomings. No, I had the revelation two nights ago as I lay next to Lovely, on what may be our final sleep together for at least some time. We've had problems the last year, but more specifically, in the latest months, with the needs, wants, and expectations we nurse as two individuals in a young and vigorous relationship. It's finally clear, as we shake for fear of the words that balance on the broad of our dampened lips, that our paths are increasingly divergent ones, that our singing is off key--the harmony not forgotten, but rather, impossible to recapture.
I've swallowed a Skittle whole.
"The things we want are what's tearing us apart." Lovely wants to live together. I did, too, before I thought about it. And, once I did, I decided I wanted to live on my own first. She would have been fine with this, but I resigned the lease here with Karfilov and Beatrice regardless. I don't have the time, right now, to get away from this life and start the next, let alone the exclusive one we'd share, no matter how much I Love her. And please, don't think any less of me. I Love this woman. I'm not ready to trade old circumstances for familiar ones, however, without trying on a few of my own first. Call it selfish, if that's the way you see it. There's more to this story, however, and you cannot possibly be in any high place to judge.
Lovely...she's impossible to describe. I lack the simple words and sensual grace of my friends Homer and Ovid, the only poets who could justly immortalize this woman.
Christmas Trees In July--the song one day will be about the lives we live in ignorance, the lives we live when we forsake our souls' most basic nourishments. These are miserable lives. If you dream a glamor dream that's out of reach you're keeping a Christmas Tree in July. If love is the reason you linger, and not the passion of the present but the cherished memories of happier times, you're keeping a Christmas Tree in July. They're beautiful to gaze on, these douglas firs and pines, but they're impossible to water, and the gifts that ring the treestand have either been too long gone to remember or are too distant-off to look forward to.
Wednesday
We're in for some Chop!
I watched Aliens in class today and found it unsettling. It's part of the curriculum for a class designed around Literature for Screenwriters, an interesting class if you're in to this kind of thing. We examine the deep roots of some of filmdom's most abundant story-trees, including the Bible and, this week, Beowulf itself. Our movie, like the poem, was long, which I expected, but I am amazed that James Cameron found a soul bold enough to light his creative, albeit disturbing, visions. Aliens left me paranoid and a little paralyzed--i think the physical stiffness is from sitting in our theater-shaped classroom for so long, though. I guess I'm curious because most movies--post-coital--don't leave me feeling this affected. However, my mood can potentially be attributed to this awesome hangover I've got.
Last night's cosmic decree was that I turn twenty-two, so I did. I slept for the entire day and avoided the usual and highly stereotypical means of young-person celebration, which involve a good deal of alcohol, and more alcohol. But then...
...about eleven, we all ventured out to a new pub that's opened just a door down from work. When I say "we" I am of course talking about Karfilov, Beatrice, and I; Beatrice didn't drink, big surprise, and Karfilov had himself a few beers before contacting the owner about a feature for the school paper. In the interim I drank too much, however, and must have been a fright this morning when I stumbled in to Classics ten minutes late, dripping sweat, and probably green. As we talked about Odysseus' pain, his honor, and his trip to the Underworld I made a comparable journey down the hall, and returned some time later with what dignity I could still summon. I hope I didn't smell too much, some of the girls in this class are cute, and one of them remembers me.
I spent the rest of the period nobly wiping snot into my sleeve and trying to look as pathetic as possible. This did not get us out early. I slept all afternoon, maintained a headache through Aliens, and emerged thoroughly mindfucked. Why was this, though? I've seen plenty of violence, gore, and death, I'm quite use to flashing lights and loud noises, and the surge of adrenaline I walked home with was by no means some fear-ridden resistance that undoubtedly laced a few of my classmates' nervous systems. The hangover, then? Or the disturbing brilliance of a one-trick pony at the height of his filmmaking prowess? Could it be Cameron?
I don't think so. When I recognized Corporal Ferro as the dropship pilot from Starcraft, and the dropship itself as the Pelican from Halo, I realized that Aliens has a breadth of influence I've underestimated. And the guys that made those games aren't as creative as I thought. My respect for one has superceded my respect for the others.
I still wanted to play Halo when I got home.
If you have a hangover, I don't recommend Aliens.
Last night's cosmic decree was that I turn twenty-two, so I did. I slept for the entire day and avoided the usual and highly stereotypical means of young-person celebration, which involve a good deal of alcohol, and more alcohol. But then...
...about eleven, we all ventured out to a new pub that's opened just a door down from work. When I say "we" I am of course talking about Karfilov, Beatrice, and I; Beatrice didn't drink, big surprise, and Karfilov had himself a few beers before contacting the owner about a feature for the school paper. In the interim I drank too much, however, and must have been a fright this morning when I stumbled in to Classics ten minutes late, dripping sweat, and probably green. As we talked about Odysseus' pain, his honor, and his trip to the Underworld I made a comparable journey down the hall, and returned some time later with what dignity I could still summon. I hope I didn't smell too much, some of the girls in this class are cute, and one of them remembers me.
I spent the rest of the period nobly wiping snot into my sleeve and trying to look as pathetic as possible. This did not get us out early. I slept all afternoon, maintained a headache through Aliens, and emerged thoroughly mindfucked. Why was this, though? I've seen plenty of violence, gore, and death, I'm quite use to flashing lights and loud noises, and the surge of adrenaline I walked home with was by no means some fear-ridden resistance that undoubtedly laced a few of my classmates' nervous systems. The hangover, then? Or the disturbing brilliance of a one-trick pony at the height of his filmmaking prowess? Could it be Cameron?
I don't think so. When I recognized Corporal Ferro as the dropship pilot from Starcraft, and the dropship itself as the Pelican from Halo, I realized that Aliens has a breadth of influence I've underestimated. And the guys that made those games aren't as creative as I thought. My respect for one has superceded my respect for the others.
I still wanted to play Halo when I got home.
If you have a hangover, I don't recommend Aliens.
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