(no subject)
Sometimes I look at the person I am, and I look at the dumbass douche bag things I've done and said, and I am fucking amazed anyone is willing to associate with me. I'm having one of those days where I desperately wish I could go back in time to a handful of occasions and ask myself what the fuck I thought I was doing.
So I started writing this long incoherent rant about work that amounts nothing, that amounts to I need to find something better to do with my life. It's hard to feel good about anything when you feel so absolutely, appallingly shitty about the thing you spend the majority of your week doing. And the thought of waking up in 12 hours to do it again does nothing for me. Instead, have a poem that is quite apt of the view from the window as I type this:
Too Much Snow Louis Jenkins
Unlike the Eskimos we only have one word for snow but we have a lot of
modifiers for that word. There is too much snow, which, unlike rain, does not
immediately run off. It falls and stays for months. Someone wished for this
snow. Someone got a deal, five cents on the dollar, and spent the entire family
fortune. It's the simple solution, it covers everything. We are never satisfied
with the arrangement of the snow so we spend hours moving the snow from one
place to another. Too much snow. I box it up and send it to family and friends.
I send a big box to my cousin in California. I send a small box to my mother.
She writes "Don't send so much. I'm all alone now. I'll never be able to use so
much." To you I send a single snowflake, beautiful, complex and delicate;
different from all the others.
The thing I don't understand about poetry that doesn't adhere to a strict form is why it can't just be prose, dammit. Why does this paragraph need to have fancy line breaks? Why can't it have some kind of narrative arc? Why can't we see the narrator packing up boxes of snow and receiving his mother's letter in response, looking at the way the letter loop together lazily under her aged hand?
I think at least in this case it's because the existence of snow is so goddamn tedious after the first week that to spend any more time with it than absolutely necessary would be cruel.
And now I am going to consider, idk, seeing if Bones is on J's Netflix instant watch thing and contemplate push ups. Or something. Idk what to do about arms.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. You can also comment there using OpenID.
comments there.
So I started writing this long incoherent rant about work that amounts nothing, that amounts to I need to find something better to do with my life. It's hard to feel good about anything when you feel so absolutely, appallingly shitty about the thing you spend the majority of your week doing. And the thought of waking up in 12 hours to do it again does nothing for me. Instead, have a poem that is quite apt of the view from the window as I type this:
Too Much Snow Louis Jenkins
Unlike the Eskimos we only have one word for snow but we have a lot of
modifiers for that word. There is too much snow, which, unlike rain, does not
immediately run off. It falls and stays for months. Someone wished for this
snow. Someone got a deal, five cents on the dollar, and spent the entire family
fortune. It's the simple solution, it covers everything. We are never satisfied
with the arrangement of the snow so we spend hours moving the snow from one
place to another. Too much snow. I box it up and send it to family and friends.
I send a big box to my cousin in California. I send a small box to my mother.
She writes "Don't send so much. I'm all alone now. I'll never be able to use so
much." To you I send a single snowflake, beautiful, complex and delicate;
different from all the others.
The thing I don't understand about poetry that doesn't adhere to a strict form is why it can't just be prose, dammit. Why does this paragraph need to have fancy line breaks? Why can't it have some kind of narrative arc? Why can't we see the narrator packing up boxes of snow and receiving his mother's letter in response, looking at the way the letter loop together lazily under her aged hand?
I think at least in this case it's because the existence of snow is so goddamn tedious after the first week that to spend any more time with it than absolutely necessary would be cruel.
And now I am going to consider, idk, seeing if Bones is on J's Netflix instant watch thing and contemplate push ups. Or something. Idk what to do about arms.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. You can also comment there using OpenID.
comments there.