Gramsci, organic intellectuals, i'm the exception.
a long day today. feeling tired. feeling slightly weak in my shoulders. tired of of organizing the best sellers. input isbn. change inventory class. save file. remove sticker from book. put book back in old section. repeat. repeat, repeat. cyclically marquez without the happiness. on and on and on. my feet look dirty. the torn, tattered ends of my pants graze against my toes. it takes a few hours to show, but now my feet are slowly beginning to blend in with my sandels. ewww... or is it. vanity, can't help it, is it wrong? Ireland's vain clergy. i don't feel like reading about it tonight. parnell this, parnell fucking that. usurpers, stab him in the back, societal vanity. i don't mind reading the chapter again, it's a nice one, dedalus is interesting and easy to relate to. he's also an ass. i'd rather not read the lengthy history of dublin or its people though. thought about my shirt today, cayman islands. thought, i wonder if t noticed i was wearing the shirt. then thought, i wonder why i wore the shirt, remembered, sitting on top of the washing machine inside out. why inside out? did i wash it with everything else? everything else was in the dryer. hmm... name tag never goes on straight. it's always at an odd angle. can't help it. try. freudian signature of my character. ass. feel like caliban today. hungry. a twix and a coke. maybe after work, then reading in the library, then french--reverse that, then home/run at the hyper/sign up for intramural, make dinner. maybe all that, maybe not. may be... may be... parce-que, pourquoi. pour quoi... pour quoi, Pourquoi est-ce que le chat et sur ma chaise? Je ne sais pas. Pavane pour une enfante defunte. Je sais. Ravel, why not the romance of debussy, why always the orchestration without the melody. MELODY RAVEL... never understood that. princess is pretty, nice melody. HA! my apologies to the corpse of ravel. death is less frightening than life, eh mozart? fuck off hesse, maybe i want to be scared. vain, pathetic, don't be afraid of art! more my problem, i think, i'm a shakespearean character without the language, i'm stephen, trapped in the web, in the sea, i'm harry, unable to laugh when cynicism and sadness is easier. None of them. self-deprecation gets me everywhere! silly aphorisms, back to me. thanks to peeping toms, i'm allowed to speak, fear put on hold, in place of vanity. art created, not good, but released now. rather be vain than afraid of creation. here here.