Monument::Monumental
Goodbye sweet friend.
Lover. Man. Madman. Genius. Poet. Illusionist. Sage. Wizard. Hero. Counterpart.
You are alive in every breath I take.
Tears streaming. Hands shaking. Lips quivering. Heart still beating.
The tree keeps growing.
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Out early, of course I am. I managed to get a large amount of paperwork and errands done today - all preliminary proceedings to my upcoming departure. Bureaucracy like a nightmare, a ridiculous amount of work work work from all angles - including working more, but that is a whisper compared to all of this. I had been out all day, procuring documents and in communication online. The like a gun shot, I read the BBC headline on my iGoogle homepage. Both hands clamp over my mouth as a mangled "NOOOOOH" gushes forth. Despair and denial all rolled into one childish word. I knew it was coming. I know him every day. I know him - logistically, statistically, creatively, beautifully, intimately. I knew JD Salinger was 91, but he is infinite, don't you see? He is infinity. He is a galaxy. I was so productive today, that I feel anger toward my sobbing stupour as I sit here unable to do absolutely anything after reading this news. I want a strong heady toast in his name. Days and nights of revelry and tribute. He is one among many of the episteme of my love.
Fucking pissed off.
If you read with pretentious disdain oeuvres that are championed and infamous before you could say that they were then you are the largest of all fools.
"Rose my colour is and white, pretty mouth and green my eyes" is the best biography ever written about me. I have told you.
Thank the fucking lint on a fly's wings that Kerouac died before I was living. Unless you want to see the true slick gaping bloody terror that would have flown out of me for having my lovers ripped away from me like this. "Oh, I think he's over-rated. I just don't like his chaotic style." Great, you louse, and I add perhaps redundantly, "And?" You know I like that the world evolves to be an organism that takes care of itself. I'm glad that you hereby declare your blindness, because we could hardly have the movement led by you. Thanks for making it clear.
I want to smack the mouths of journalists and casual readers the world over. The people who recall the words "Catcher in the Rye" with a sluggish glint of recognition. The people who faintly recall the story that they possibly once had to read in High School but never quite grasped what the big deal was about.
I throw a bomb at your idiot face:
'Every time I'd get to the end of a block I'd make believe I was talking to my brother Allie. I'd say to him,'Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Please, Allie.' And then when I'd reach the other side of the street without disappearing, I'd thank him.' - page 178
and if I only had the book in front of me - and not boxed away in my mother's basement with the rest of my possessions - I could throw grenades at you all night, and you'd never even know it. You'd think they were feathers, or simply not hear or see a thing at all. And I would know that your were made of simply dust. Time ----> Us. Δ
Franny
Zooey
Raise High the Roof beam, Carpenters
Seymour, an Introduction
=
my favourite works from the man.
Oh HOW I have stated the words, "Raise high the roof beam, carpenters," to every man that has mentioned he was getting married - or every groom I have seen on his wedding day - waiting to see just the smallest stall of recognition, a searching question, why is it familiar. Nope. Dust.
These 4 short books will put you in the grave, the galaxy, and you will roll happily to death with them.
Franny
Zooey
"There is a great and ancient tree in the shadowest blue midnight forest that weeps for all eternity and the only thing to embark from its lips is the word "Glass"."
I would sit right down on a sewer-gaping winter-chill desolate street corner and cry a childish open-mouthed endless sobbing into my clawed hand at this most delicate breath of life Salinger breathed into this life form, this place, this event: The Glass Family. On par with The Endless, this is where time does not exist, it has been ruled over. Glass, and I shatter. This post-carnaval genius-wise lovery that is a family. They are a vault, filled with dusty ripe relics, gnarled wood moldings, and a wide open sky. Grace, I do not know well, but I adore. If she wore a locket, the Glass Family would be inside.
One day I will bounce a little Franny and a little Zooey on my knee and throw stars at their faces until they forget everything but dazzle and dream.
I'm not pissed because he has been and gone. I'm pissed because you did not throw him a parade and you fail to see the tragedy in that.
Oh gosh. Passion. I'm either scared or so dead inside that it causes me to roll my eyes. Oh no wait, that's you. It is with great pleasure that I slice those sorts of people from my life. The dream rolls on, the band continues to play, the tree grows, the dreaming thickens, all to my temporal tap of the shoe.