(no subject)
those of you who commented in that post of mine this morning, thank you. it really means a lot to me. i'm disabling comments on this entry as a punishment to myself. i figure that it's nice i'm appreciative of you, but i shouldn't be so lazy in commenting back? so until i get my act together with responding to those comments, i don't deserve to receive further ones. you know, ben franklin developed a project to work on moral perfection. it contained categories such as temperance, silence, order, frugality, industry, etc. this is my diluted, yet equally sincere, project of livejournal moral perfection.
so here are a few fictional pieces i've been working on, and here are a few pictures of our trip to the apple orchard. i sincerely wanted to write in "apple pound" here, you know thousands of lonely orphans, some tart and some speckled but marked with good intentions, but i've tried to restrain myself.
whenever tragedy would befall me i'd escape it, at least temporarily, by growing livid over any of the numerous injustices society has both propagated and suffered. slavery. ethnic cleansing. sexism. the new york yankees. mccarthyism. she pointed it out to me on the night after my mother died. she was miraculous and serene, a fifth of jim beam clutched against her leg like a weapon in a holster. i told her about how unfair it was in the reign of terror, how depressing it was the way humanity never learned, those ordering the killing were eventually killed themselves.
they should never have invented the guillotine, i'd said. if they hadn't invented it, what would dickens ever do except write about orphans? she'd asked. where would jacques-louis david be were it not for his bloodlust for the monarchy? bitch, i'd said, because she'd given me new things to consider, and i wasn't up for the assignment.
i wish often, and by often i mean any time i look in a reflecting glass, that i could romance a french actress from the era of newly-incorporated technicolor. or maybe i could romance a few: half staying true to monochrome, half saturated in ruby and blue. those girls do everything with a heavy, fated purpose. they clean dishes with purpose. they select goldfish with purpose and they put their clothes on with purpose. they ironically whistle brahms with purpose, they hawk political pins and fall into parisian gutters with the damned sweetest purpose you ever could see.
before she left, she said: it's not those french characters you're in love with. it's the film directors - they're the ones with starry outlooks, they're the ones writing the words you repeat to yourself when you're brushing your teeth. suck on that, freud! where she lacked in eloquence she made up for in demonstrative punch. she left and took away the dog. two months later, she mailed a check with "your past animal investments" in the memo section. i considered legal action, to get the dog back, but we hadn't been married and i didn't want to shame myself determining whether or not law extended to the canine realm.
+
i love you, he said. but i don't want a baby. if that kid took on any of my mannerisms, the way all children ultimately do, i'd hit the roof. these mannerisms aren't to be spread. i feel like i'd be inflicting a kid with polio, teaching him to be like me. christ. i can just picture it: a three-year-old cynical to the bone, spouting off glumly about spinoza and the stock market. cringing anytime somebody laughs too hard or says something vaguely religious or makes a big deal of laying all their cards down upon the table. that kid would be inflicted, alright. we'd have to buy him his own iron lung.
so here are a few fictional pieces i've been working on, and here are a few pictures of our trip to the apple orchard. i sincerely wanted to write in "apple pound" here, you know thousands of lonely orphans, some tart and some speckled but marked with good intentions, but i've tried to restrain myself.
whenever tragedy would befall me i'd escape it, at least temporarily, by growing livid over any of the numerous injustices society has both propagated and suffered. slavery. ethnic cleansing. sexism. the new york yankees. mccarthyism. she pointed it out to me on the night after my mother died. she was miraculous and serene, a fifth of jim beam clutched against her leg like a weapon in a holster. i told her about how unfair it was in the reign of terror, how depressing it was the way humanity never learned, those ordering the killing were eventually killed themselves.
they should never have invented the guillotine, i'd said. if they hadn't invented it, what would dickens ever do except write about orphans? she'd asked. where would jacques-louis david be were it not for his bloodlust for the monarchy? bitch, i'd said, because she'd given me new things to consider, and i wasn't up for the assignment.
i wish often, and by often i mean any time i look in a reflecting glass, that i could romance a french actress from the era of newly-incorporated technicolor. or maybe i could romance a few: half staying true to monochrome, half saturated in ruby and blue. those girls do everything with a heavy, fated purpose. they clean dishes with purpose. they select goldfish with purpose and they put their clothes on with purpose. they ironically whistle brahms with purpose, they hawk political pins and fall into parisian gutters with the damned sweetest purpose you ever could see.
before she left, she said: it's not those french characters you're in love with. it's the film directors - they're the ones with starry outlooks, they're the ones writing the words you repeat to yourself when you're brushing your teeth. suck on that, freud! where she lacked in eloquence she made up for in demonstrative punch. she left and took away the dog. two months later, she mailed a check with "your past animal investments" in the memo section. i considered legal action, to get the dog back, but we hadn't been married and i didn't want to shame myself determining whether or not law extended to the canine realm.
+
i love you, he said. but i don't want a baby. if that kid took on any of my mannerisms, the way all children ultimately do, i'd hit the roof. these mannerisms aren't to be spread. i feel like i'd be inflicting a kid with polio, teaching him to be like me. christ. i can just picture it: a three-year-old cynical to the bone, spouting off glumly about spinoza and the stock market. cringing anytime somebody laughs too hard or says something vaguely religious or makes a big deal of laying all their cards down upon the table. that kid would be inflicted, alright. we'd have to buy him his own iron lung.