| (no subject) |
[Apr. 26th, 2006|04:34 am] |
I'd love to run, but my pocket jingles.
Better to think your thoughts than bother to remember them. (Er -- can anyone explain this to me?)
A eulogy to fogotten memories.
And to Camino, you goddamn fucking lazy asshole: It's free. FREE. Fucking use it, it's fucking FREE. "I'm going to invent my own oxygen supply -- that of the earth is not sufficient. Except mine shall not sustain the life of the majority of those who breathe oxygen, it shall only sustain my own, very narrow, oxygen needs." Grr.
Taste.
"A business opportunity." <-- The idea of such.
ATDT 7633599... ET phone home. Been a long time. A singular thrill.
I know I have not been a big help.
I spent $3.49 on 2 sponges. By comparison I normally spend $1.00 on 8 sponges. I don't even like sponges. How can a place sell a roll of toilet paper for $5.77 and a chocolate bar for 64 cents?
Anyone else out there confused? Unsure of the proper course of action? Uncertain as to how things have unfolded and how things will yet unfold? I'm looking at a 1/4 oz of yeast and a bag of flour, but I've never baked bread.
I want to make things worse, but I'm too lazy, too selfish, too unsure how to make things better. (I'm not sure this fits or even makes sense.)
Raisin bran on the floor ... but what good does that do? Books with bent corners ... better to read them, to burn them, to live them, to sell them, to want them, to own them, to eat them, to avoid them, to read them?
How can I trust in the chimerical chemical fates when the graphite and the lead and the ink and the blood and the camera and the tape and the film and the bit record it as it is, or as it could have been, or as it might yet be, or as it is?
Oi, and with the slap in the face. May not wake me up, but it keeps me alive.
A modern twist.
Each word in parentheses, nested to no end, recursive, remissive, recurrent, regressive.
Google is such a slacker. Such a worthless, motionless, boring piece of shit.
If it's not in your notes ... it didn't happen. Quantify, qualify, exterminate, right? I need it, I want it, I can't stand it. PTY, LTD ... I like your hat, but what have you done for the world today?
I am (literally (yes, parentheses)) intoxicated by the smell of burning human flesh. My own and that of others; mixed, transgressed, imbibed, whole and raw (well... maybed cooked), but swallowed ... and I supine and indifferent.
And no I did not (you cruel bastard), and yes I will chew your babies all the same, and chew and chew and chew.
To twist and to crunch and to divert and to idolatrize, and to know when to stop and how to begin ... tis a skill I'm not eager to learn, a skill and a trade and a blade and (well, in the great scheme you must admit) a fad (you must admit).
"We toast [he] who pens his thoughts within nests of parentheses."
With certain exceptions (the quote) I only really write because I need to read. I'd love to accept, to be passive, to enjoy, to be satisfied. I am that, mostly (in any real sense, and more), but I'd also like to be alive, to be free, to be sane, to be.
Tuckered out and put off I surrender to the (was going to say syncopated rhythm) godawful noise outside and flee and close and shut and hate (the orange light and the feet on the stairs (and it's 4 am and I really don't care))...
And it's passed. Time. Does that. A trick. My hands glisten, my back aches. As much as I am living, I am also dying.
A study must immediately be done: is it the hands or is it the face that the writer imagines as they type or as they write? Or, perhaps, something else? What is it they see as they write? Flesh? Words?
Well, I'm cold and going to bed. (Also, I have bad teeth.) |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 24th, 2006|03:57 pm] |
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"A letter is an unannounced visit, the postman the agent of rude surprises. One ought to reserve an hour a week for receiving letters and afterwards take a bath." |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 24th, 2006|02:58 am] |
I'm having a really time hard believing in any of this shit.
(8 pages later)
To have somewhere to go each day is a great relief of the burden. To not have to see, to feel, to be ...
I can't express myself in French. But I can read it, I can listen to it, and I can respond to it ...
A fibrinous clot formed in a blood vessel or in a chamber of the heart.
I hate taking responsibility for anything. I'd rather be the invisible man.
It makes no difference. Who do you love? (yeah, yeah)
If I don't do it ... somebody else will.
God I'd like to start from scratch.
Do it wrong, till I do it right. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 21st, 2006|01:36 am] |
Fuck y'all, I'm doing that thing with the crazy.
Hey Curteye, do you like Cuff the Duke? If not, why not? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 18th, 2006|08:05 pm] |
Recipe of the day:
- Throw in to a small frying pan 2 eggs, beaten with a fork like they've been bad. Make omelet.
- Throw on 2 heaping tablespoons of chunky chunky salsa.
- Douse liberally with hot pepper sauce (because your store bought salsa sucks, admit it) and rain down Romano cheese like it's Dec. 24th and the airports are closed. Fold.
- Enjoy! And don't forget to wash the dishes! That's the best part!
If your mouth feels a little frisky after, have a gin and tonic to cool down.
A little black pepper might work too ... not tested though (dang), so try at your own risk. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 18th, 2006|07:15 pm] |
Good thing they don't sell heavy weapons in supermarkets.
I was in Price Chopper and they started playing "Wild World" by Cat Stevens. Except it wasn't Cat Stevens. And there were saxaphones.
Also, they had no spinach, and I was sad.
But on the way out I got smiled at by a pretty girl, so now I'm in a good mood. :)
Saxaphones though ... god ... what has the world come to? As if Price Chopper wasn't depressing enough as it was, with fat single mothers buying pre-cut-up hotdogs in ketchup1 and dozens of 2 litre bottles of generic soda pop.
1. Yes, they sell this in a single serving package. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 17th, 2006|11:37 am] |
Ah, here we go:
pollution all around
sometimes up sometimes down
but always around
pollution are you coming to my town?
Or am i coming to yours?
we're on different buses pollution,
but were both using petrol ...
bombs!
Heh. He said petrol. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 17th, 2006|12:50 am] |
"I can speed up time! I think I hurt my tongue." -- Sounds I made when brushing my teeth
Arg! Who stole my Origin of Species? Hrmph.
Anything that's meant to be studied could profitably be skimmed ...
Anything that's meant to be skimmed could profitably be studied?
I *HATE* google. If I search for "petrol ... bombs" I want fucking "petrol ... bombs" not fucking "petrol bombs". The ellipsis is there for a reason. Goddamnit. You search for poetry and you get molotov cockails. Ridiculous. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2006|10:27 pm] |
Some scribbles:
The pleasure is in the doing. Once you're done, you can look back at at any time with equal satisfaction. But only in the doing can you truly experience the thing.
Greenpeace founder advocates for increased nuclear power generation.
This guy thinks students should all just sit around and read old books. Not that I disagree, but is it really so bad that so many are learning practical things in universities? Renaissance Italy was wealthy, as we are today, but also practical and and commercial. There were more merchants than writers, more fisherman than sculpters and more farmers than painters. Literacy today is much more widespread than it was then. I don't have the figures, and I need a drink, but I'm sure university enrollment is at least a few orders of magnitude higher today than it was then. Also, we now have easier access to a larger variety of books than ever before. We're also living longer and enjoy, in general, more leisure hours than ever before. I don't know how many books people read back then (but keep in mind this was before Gutenberg's press) but would it really be impossible for today's average middle-age university-educated adult to be more well read than, say, Plutarch? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2006|09:23 pm] |
I need new clothes: I have nothing to wear
on my date with my computer and chair.
Sure they're insensate and prolly don't care,
but I'd still really like something to wear. |
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kwnd's journal