Light on paper.
I change my mind alot, which is a little weird given that my usual contribution to any sort of public inquiry tends to be as interesting as "I dun care". It's not that I don't have opinions, because I do: they're vast, shifting things not unlike the yawning faces of Those Who Lie Dreaming, beckoning you into madness. I have opinions on everything and they are as judgemental as they are mercurial. I just don't particular give my own opinions too much weight. Much like the alcohol swab before a lethal injection, they're there for the sake of completeness because while having them might seem odd, it's only more jarring for them not to be there.
To me, anyway.
I decided to shave the goatee today because I wanted to see about one of my opinions - do I really like it more than not having it? It's been awhile since I've seen my bare chin and skin-in-front-of-the-ears-with-no-particular-regional-distinction. Besides, dermatologists tell you it's good for your skin. I'm not about to argue, as I don't have alot of free time to test out theories about my skin, whereas they do. And I'm sure they have. The last time I trimmed my scrubland down to something more terraced, I got a little shock of dismay that I should have been expecting. This time I was expecting it, but it wasn't any less irritating. Around about November last year, the grey was coming back in my hair around the temples and upper hairline, so when I shaved for Christmas, I slashed and burned down the hiding place of evidence far more damning - hundreds of little white whiskers bowed under the curled and accomodating reds and browns in my chin.
I don't have the patience to really dye the face like I do the top, so I may need to get used to looking 20 years older than I am. Those hairs are not going anywhere, and I think they're bringing a colonization crew. I guess it's not all bad, though, I hear Eric Dane pulls it off relatively well.
We went and saw Watchmen, like the good little geeks with our marching orders that we are. It's odd how time and perspective can change another tightly-held (or so I thought) opinion. After reading the book for the first time, I always saw a sort of dark prophecy in the Comedian. I never thought I could ever be that depraved, but the words "once you realize what a joke everything is, being the Comedian is the only thing that makes sense" always rang with a particular sense of foreboding to me. Isn't that the way of everyone who learns too much, to either go nuts or become bitter and jaded over it? But in the movie, and I guess because of how it was in the movie, the character of Nite Owl tugged on the edge of my awareness a little. A man frowning at his old costume, at once relieved and disgusted by the dust settling on it. Maybe Dreiberg saw the Comedian as a flash forward, too, and was glad he never had to see if he was right... but regretted never knowing for sure.
Beyond that, the weekend was biking, buying cookies, and heading down to start Irish lessons at (what else) a pub. I've had this weird sensation in the back of my throat for days now, like I've been eating thing that burned. I can't really describe it any better than the raw feeling you get right before a bad cold or flu settles in, but it hasn't really progressed past that. I keep meaning to go to the doctor for all sorts of things. My teeth. My foot. My arm. My eyes. My wrist. I'm shaking and flaking and quaking apart, but at least I don't have any dust on me, I spose.
This memory, a moment frozen.
But it feels like I'm writing on the wind.
The test of time, the leaves are fading
These answers, like ashes, do descend.
To me, anyway.
I decided to shave the goatee today because I wanted to see about one of my opinions - do I really like it more than not having it? It's been awhile since I've seen my bare chin and skin-in-front-of-the-ears-with-no-particular-regional-distinction. Besides, dermatologists tell you it's good for your skin. I'm not about to argue, as I don't have alot of free time to test out theories about my skin, whereas they do. And I'm sure they have. The last time I trimmed my scrubland down to something more terraced, I got a little shock of dismay that I should have been expecting. This time I was expecting it, but it wasn't any less irritating. Around about November last year, the grey was coming back in my hair around the temples and upper hairline, so when I shaved for Christmas, I slashed and burned down the hiding place of evidence far more damning - hundreds of little white whiskers bowed under the curled and accomodating reds and browns in my chin.
I don't have the patience to really dye the face like I do the top, so I may need to get used to looking 20 years older than I am. Those hairs are not going anywhere, and I think they're bringing a colonization crew. I guess it's not all bad, though, I hear Eric Dane pulls it off relatively well.
We went and saw Watchmen, like the good little geeks with our marching orders that we are. It's odd how time and perspective can change another tightly-held (or so I thought) opinion. After reading the book for the first time, I always saw a sort of dark prophecy in the Comedian. I never thought I could ever be that depraved, but the words "once you realize what a joke everything is, being the Comedian is the only thing that makes sense" always rang with a particular sense of foreboding to me. Isn't that the way of everyone who learns too much, to either go nuts or become bitter and jaded over it? But in the movie, and I guess because of how it was in the movie, the character of Nite Owl tugged on the edge of my awareness a little. A man frowning at his old costume, at once relieved and disgusted by the dust settling on it. Maybe Dreiberg saw the Comedian as a flash forward, too, and was glad he never had to see if he was right... but regretted never knowing for sure.
Beyond that, the weekend was biking, buying cookies, and heading down to start Irish lessons at (what else) a pub. I've had this weird sensation in the back of my throat for days now, like I've been eating thing that burned. I can't really describe it any better than the raw feeling you get right before a bad cold or flu settles in, but it hasn't really progressed past that. I keep meaning to go to the doctor for all sorts of things. My teeth. My foot. My arm. My eyes. My wrist. I'm shaking and flaking and quaking apart, but at least I don't have any dust on me, I spose.
This memory, a moment frozen.
But it feels like I'm writing on the wind.
The test of time, the leaves are fading
These answers, like ashes, do descend.