but I was given a free fruit protein smoothie today, so that's alright
Think William Gibson knows about this?
my little tanith
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue. "A screaming comes across the sky..." Gravity's Rainbow again, Pynchon as one of my favourite authors. Paul lent it to me, the sweet pig-tailed man who juggles as he walks, months ago as part of a thick stack, bricks of book to help build a delicious wall of post-modernism beside my bed. Now enough time has passed that I am feeling the pressure of their weight every time I leave the house without them. Except for this last novel, they require returning. Given another set of circumstances, I would not be so concerned, but I can sense myself putting it off out of a stunted sense of self-preservation. There’s no casual way to be certain that Marc would not be the one to answer the door. I would have my past be a silent thing. There does not seem enough good in it to be worth preserving so carefully. It is not fair that my heart jumps so suddenly with his name.
The Wisdom of Children.
I do not like my memory acting as a ghost haunted, falsely fate-ridden private universe. I rather my hurts decompose, fold back into my experiences instead of corrode them, but cannot seem to find the trick. It has abandoned me completely. Instead I find myself withdrawing, attempting to find a social array where these emotionally catastrophic people do not so immediately exist, which doesn’t actually help at all. I suppose part of it is that I’m too busy trying to create a theatre through sheer force of will to concentrate on anything more private. Still, it nags me. That pile of books, however saturated with kindness, remains a constant reminder of circumstances that my wounded my well being - a Damocles sword that fell without a feast waiting (or even a table).
The Smithsonian Institution pleads poverty while Smithsonian Secretary used Smithsonian funds to decorate his house.
my little tanith
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue. "A screaming comes across the sky..." Gravity's Rainbow again, Pynchon as one of my favourite authors. Paul lent it to me, the sweet pig-tailed man who juggles as he walks, months ago as part of a thick stack, bricks of book to help build a delicious wall of post-modernism beside my bed. Now enough time has passed that I am feeling the pressure of their weight every time I leave the house without them. Except for this last novel, they require returning. Given another set of circumstances, I would not be so concerned, but I can sense myself putting it off out of a stunted sense of self-preservation. There’s no casual way to be certain that Marc would not be the one to answer the door. I would have my past be a silent thing. There does not seem enough good in it to be worth preserving so carefully. It is not fair that my heart jumps so suddenly with his name.
The Wisdom of Children.
I do not like my memory acting as a ghost haunted, falsely fate-ridden private universe. I rather my hurts decompose, fold back into my experiences instead of corrode them, but cannot seem to find the trick. It has abandoned me completely. Instead I find myself withdrawing, attempting to find a social array where these emotionally catastrophic people do not so immediately exist, which doesn’t actually help at all. I suppose part of it is that I’m too busy trying to create a theatre through sheer force of will to concentrate on anything more private. Still, it nags me. That pile of books, however saturated with kindness, remains a constant reminder of circumstances that my wounded my well being - a Damocles sword that fell without a feast waiting (or even a table).
The Smithsonian Institution pleads poverty while Smithsonian Secretary used Smithsonian funds to decorate his house.