it's not irony and it's not rock and roll
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them of Eros and Dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negations and despair
Show an affirming flame.
--- W. H Auden, September, 1939
i've always loved the cremation of sam mcgee. i can't think of a more awesome way to fake a cultural heritage than with beautiful water colour paintings. there probably isn't a better way to lie about something than to put it down on paper. it saves you from having to repeat it over and over again; you can just point to something that has already been written down and use its permanence as authority.
if i write your name down on my list, does that mean that we're friends forever? or atleast, until i take you off the list? we can talk about the mad trapper and the lost patrol all we want, we can write stories and paint paintings about them, but that doesn't make our claim that we have a history in the north true.
there are some people who keep me in constant fear. i'm afraid that one day i will find that our nexopia friend status is no longer mutual. but maybe, just maybe, if i keep them all on my list, they wont notice that i'm there and that means that they'll have to stay my friend. sort of like when a girl is screening her calls to avoid me and i keep calling her, knowing this full well, just hoping that if i call using a different phone she'll pick up and we can talk. forgetting that she isn't being forced to avoid me or that her screening her calls like a drug dealer isn't an accident. maybe if i call her one more time and i get through i'll finally get an answer and know whether or not i should take her off my list.
i like long bus rides, i always have. there is just something about travelling somewhere by yourself as part of something as unstoppable as a scheduled bus that is so appealing. i read on the bus now, except when it is too cold to take my gloves off, then i just listen to music. before i met C there was a time when i did neither, i could make the trip to B without having to occupy my mind with anything because i wasn't afraid to be alone with my thoughts for an extended period of time.
on top of that, i like suburban busses much better than city busses. there is so much more order in the public transit of the suburbs: the front is for grownups who compete in different games, and the back is for kids who have no other games to compete in but these. i always think these thoughts when i get on to the bus that goes by my house. i step on, flash the driver my upass with no small measure of pride, then i survey the back seat for kids who might be cooler than me. if i saw that i was the coolest kid on the bus, i sat in the back, if not, i pretended that i was far too mature for such stupid games and sat near the front. this order and structure is a far cry from the savagery of city busses. every man for himself, sit where you please. there isn't even any back seat of note. you just get on, pray you can find a seat, then pray that the mumbling meth head beside you doesn't want company.
i haven't been eating or sleeping much lately. all i can think of is harry haller and the fight of man against wolf. i'd say that man is winning, much to my detriment. some days i wish the wolf would gain the upper hand, finish the job, and let me live like all of the people i envy. other days i hate myself for thinking that. sweet things help the man.
"how could you not know the difference between synecdoche and metonymy? you really are a fucking idiot." and with that my boss threw the manuscript back in my face, shook his head, and walked away. as he passed the rows and rows of desks on the way back to his office, the other faceless typists who had been listening in to my admonishment resumed their mindless typing, sending a wave of noise in my boss's wake. the noise of the typewriters is so loud, i cant think of any reason we still use those old pieces of shit except for dramatic effect. i hate my job so much. some days i fear that i may lose it to a machine, but then i remember that no machine could do this job as resentfully as i can. it isn't the fault of society that i'm here, i had no shortage of choices when i was growing up, but none of them were ever good enough for me. i had in my mind pictured the perfect woman. i still picture her. if you ask me, i'll tell you in such vivid detail that you'll disgrace your body to thoughts of her yourself. but all that time, deep down inside i knew that i was saving myself for some life sucking bitch who would make me want to leave for work an hour early so i could spend as little time with her as possible.
"Elvira, you is a bitch."
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them of Eros and Dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negations and despair
Show an affirming flame.
--- W. H Auden, September, 1939
i've always loved the cremation of sam mcgee. i can't think of a more awesome way to fake a cultural heritage than with beautiful water colour paintings. there probably isn't a better way to lie about something than to put it down on paper. it saves you from having to repeat it over and over again; you can just point to something that has already been written down and use its permanence as authority.
if i write your name down on my list, does that mean that we're friends forever? or atleast, until i take you off the list? we can talk about the mad trapper and the lost patrol all we want, we can write stories and paint paintings about them, but that doesn't make our claim that we have a history in the north true.
there are some people who keep me in constant fear. i'm afraid that one day i will find that our nexopia friend status is no longer mutual. but maybe, just maybe, if i keep them all on my list, they wont notice that i'm there and that means that they'll have to stay my friend. sort of like when a girl is screening her calls to avoid me and i keep calling her, knowing this full well, just hoping that if i call using a different phone she'll pick up and we can talk. forgetting that she isn't being forced to avoid me or that her screening her calls like a drug dealer isn't an accident. maybe if i call her one more time and i get through i'll finally get an answer and know whether or not i should take her off my list.
i like long bus rides, i always have. there is just something about travelling somewhere by yourself as part of something as unstoppable as a scheduled bus that is so appealing. i read on the bus now, except when it is too cold to take my gloves off, then i just listen to music. before i met C there was a time when i did neither, i could make the trip to B without having to occupy my mind with anything because i wasn't afraid to be alone with my thoughts for an extended period of time.
on top of that, i like suburban busses much better than city busses. there is so much more order in the public transit of the suburbs: the front is for grownups who compete in different games, and the back is for kids who have no other games to compete in but these. i always think these thoughts when i get on to the bus that goes by my house. i step on, flash the driver my upass with no small measure of pride, then i survey the back seat for kids who might be cooler than me. if i saw that i was the coolest kid on the bus, i sat in the back, if not, i pretended that i was far too mature for such stupid games and sat near the front. this order and structure is a far cry from the savagery of city busses. every man for himself, sit where you please. there isn't even any back seat of note. you just get on, pray you can find a seat, then pray that the mumbling meth head beside you doesn't want company.
i haven't been eating or sleeping much lately. all i can think of is harry haller and the fight of man against wolf. i'd say that man is winning, much to my detriment. some days i wish the wolf would gain the upper hand, finish the job, and let me live like all of the people i envy. other days i hate myself for thinking that. sweet things help the man.
"how could you not know the difference between synecdoche and metonymy? you really are a fucking idiot." and with that my boss threw the manuscript back in my face, shook his head, and walked away. as he passed the rows and rows of desks on the way back to his office, the other faceless typists who had been listening in to my admonishment resumed their mindless typing, sending a wave of noise in my boss's wake. the noise of the typewriters is so loud, i cant think of any reason we still use those old pieces of shit except for dramatic effect. i hate my job so much. some days i fear that i may lose it to a machine, but then i remember that no machine could do this job as resentfully as i can. it isn't the fault of society that i'm here, i had no shortage of choices when i was growing up, but none of them were ever good enough for me. i had in my mind pictured the perfect woman. i still picture her. if you ask me, i'll tell you in such vivid detail that you'll disgrace your body to thoughts of her yourself. but all that time, deep down inside i knew that i was saving myself for some life sucking bitch who would make me want to leave for work an hour early so i could spend as little time with her as possible.
"Elvira, you is a bitch."