Hellooo Nurse!
I could honestly compose something of an epic concerning the happenings since my last entry. But that would be excruciatingly dull.
Opry Mills Mall, haunt of the overweight tourists. Nevertheless, we have grown up together, and I've grown so dearly fond of you. Really now, nothing beats the exotic aroma that is apple and cinnamon essence intermingling with the stench of window cleaner.
And I like the direction mainstream fashion is taking; I can always work the corporate/urban chic look into my wardrobe. And then there's the artsy stuff that is more glamourous than the vintage garb of late and the military wear that appeals to my inner Rivethead.
My sister and I romped around Lowes one day. As children we would pretend it was some sort of bleak wonder-world: the land of the lamps was our celestial asylum, the greenhouse was the Eastern garden of earthly delights, and to the West (the lumber section) was a formidable forest, home of the malevolent "beep-beeps." Now I am blessed (or cursed) to be able to treasure the beauty of every nook and cranny of a hardware store. The scent of plastic and rubber and dusty wood is intoxicating. The shimmering array of metalic knick-knacks, massive coils of foam like the spiral of life, the unmistakable and foreboding beeping of the lumber-handling vehicles (which still makes my heart race)... behold the potential of man... corporate greed, oligopolistic crisis, seductive image of friendliness (by the people, for the people), manufactured machismo, industrial magnificence... how splendid, how splendid. I am still very ill, but I'm getting better, I'm working on it, I cried for the pain of a stranger last night. There is hope, yes, there is hope. But I don't want to sacrifice my unusual sense of beauty... just modify it, so that I won't delight in suffering, or the symbolism of suffering.
That is the crisis. I must reconcile my unusual aesthetic preferences (that resonate too deeply with me to be dismissed or repressed) with my understanding of morality. How can I fight for peace if the idea of peace seems so bland to that rapacious, jaded, postmodernist, sadistic artist in me? To fight requires passion, but I am disillusioned! No, I can not fight for peace and harmony. My battle is far more challenging... I must fight myself such that I may, someday, passionately fight for peace and harmony as I know I should...
So there's that bit. I just lost my dazzling new eye-shadow to my sister in a game of poker.
Opry Mills Mall, haunt of the overweight tourists. Nevertheless, we have grown up together, and I've grown so dearly fond of you. Really now, nothing beats the exotic aroma that is apple and cinnamon essence intermingling with the stench of window cleaner.
And I like the direction mainstream fashion is taking; I can always work the corporate/urban chic look into my wardrobe. And then there's the artsy stuff that is more glamourous than the vintage garb of late and the military wear that appeals to my inner Rivethead.
My sister and I romped around Lowes one day. As children we would pretend it was some sort of bleak wonder-world: the land of the lamps was our celestial asylum, the greenhouse was the Eastern garden of earthly delights, and to the West (the lumber section) was a formidable forest, home of the malevolent "beep-beeps." Now I am blessed (or cursed) to be able to treasure the beauty of every nook and cranny of a hardware store. The scent of plastic and rubber and dusty wood is intoxicating. The shimmering array of metalic knick-knacks, massive coils of foam like the spiral of life, the unmistakable and foreboding beeping of the lumber-handling vehicles (which still makes my heart race)... behold the potential of man... corporate greed, oligopolistic crisis, seductive image of friendliness (by the people, for the people), manufactured machismo, industrial magnificence... how splendid, how splendid. I am still very ill, but I'm getting better, I'm working on it, I cried for the pain of a stranger last night. There is hope, yes, there is hope. But I don't want to sacrifice my unusual sense of beauty... just modify it, so that I won't delight in suffering, or the symbolism of suffering.
That is the crisis. I must reconcile my unusual aesthetic preferences (that resonate too deeply with me to be dismissed or repressed) with my understanding of morality. How can I fight for peace if the idea of peace seems so bland to that rapacious, jaded, postmodernist, sadistic artist in me? To fight requires passion, but I am disillusioned! No, I can not fight for peace and harmony. My battle is far more challenging... I must fight myself such that I may, someday, passionately fight for peace and harmony as I know I should...
So there's that bit. I just lost my dazzling new eye-shadow to my sister in a game of poker.