| | This actually has nothing to do with the title. Isn't that clever?
"The lyrics are all about communicating want. Does anyone know how. Will you get in touch if you do."
Right now I really should be watching Fight Club for my English class. I really, really should. I don't think I'll have enough time to do it tomorrow. I really should watch that shit.
I'll actually return to this topic in a little while--I'd like to take the time to quote Charles Simic because he wrote something about the human condition and analogized it to birds so naturally I couldn't resist.
"Mother's needle made quick crosses.
They were black
Like the inside of my head just then
The pages I turned sounded like wings.
"The soul is a bird," he once said."
So, second semester. It exists and I'm in it. Mostly I'd just like to inquire to some sort of higher body that I will concoct for the sole purpose of answering rhetorical questions as to why I have to be so awkward. Why does my awkwardness pile up like a precarious jenga™ tower of faux pas and why is every waking moment of my existence like haphazardly yanking THE MOST structurally important jenga™ block from the bottom row? No idea, but I sure hope whomever is living the converse of my situation is making the most of it. Reap the benefits of poise, you bastard. REAP THEM.
But life goes on, and I attend college. I think the more I learn, the less I understand about how everything works. And I am sometimes miffed by the existentialist light that's shed upon it all, but things are impossible to separate completely from each other; it's all sort of just homogenous and I remember reading about the butterfly effect and wondering how no one had thought of it sooner. When you plug in an infinite number of inputs, they have an infinite number of possible outcomes and the graph resembles a butterfly's wings because it's like, several infinity signs over and over.
And over. The cirque du soleil tent is across the highway and yet I can hear the deep bass notes of the music wafting through the stupidly (albeit appropriately) frigid air. STILL. The highway system around here isn't a small one, mind you! What does their noise think it's doing over here?
", said the shotgun to the head."
I admit, I love you, Saul Williams. Yous got soul.
I like that. I like punctuation, and I like it especially in the quote because a comma is not an end, it's a pause. It's just a pause.
"Last night I woke from a dream. It was vivid and you were asleep, too. There was a jar of fireflies on my desk either here or there, and you twitched. I spoke then and you didn't hear me, but mostly what matters is that those words were let out; they breathed something heavy, like a sigh in a room with lots of open books or the air when it rains in the city. The words themselves were heavy, too, and it was ironic how they floated. They staggered against the glow of the lightning bugs and travelled down the contour of your nose and your jaw, and the sheets fashioned a 300 thread count escalator for them and they crawled to the threshold, used the restroom across the hall, and left. You woke up sometime later, and the sun was there for a while. You were gone after then, and if you weren't gone, you must've been hiding which is considered the same thing because I can't see with anything else but my eyes. I don't remember if I ever found you or if I was dreaming, or even what those words were or where they went. It's not as much of a mystery as it is a story or a tree in a park that you envision when you almost die but you don't because you wake up--it's just something happening. Whatever it was--it changed something here and something very far away. Very far away the words crept, and we were here once, and you asked me something silly like 'what does a factory do but make facts?' Then I laughed at the absurdity of the question and we fell asleep."
ANYWAYZ
So, the preface of Fight Club has gotten me thinking about life--or death in life, or something, idk.
I suppose I wonder if I'm really living sometimes or if any of the businessmen at Starbucks in the morning are living either, or what it even means to be alive if breathing and exercising the ability to function don't count. And I don't want to let the things I control control me, I really don't, that seems scary. I actually just wonder if I'm going about life in any sort of way that is commendable or recognizable as existing with some impact on anything else or if that's even important to me. Happiness is super elusive, maybe.
Potentially I just want to breeze through all of these terrifyingly demeaning exercises my violin professor makes me endure and somehow acquire flawless technique or maybe I wish I could just do grammatical crunches and somehow get published somewhere just so I could teach and tell people my age now what it's like to be ..anything and it be respectable.
Also, I want to be able to run as much as I want when I want and devise various escape routes just incase anything doesn't look promising or conversely looks so promising that I'd screw it up somehow because I would.
But instead of doing anything about anything, I will succumb to my slumbersome state, continue contemplating the ostensibility of it all, and eat a pudding cup.
No one can deny themselves the treasure of some delicious pud. -ding.
I wonder if I'll ever not have acne because it's seriously like a stigmata. I am pbs. (Plagued By Stigmata).
Dialog in the dark was super interesting, even if our guide was a wonky panhandler. I realized that I don't utilize any of my other senses to their potential. So I wandered really aimlessly throughout the whole entire course running into this girl named Virginia/a wall.
Also, the 'check engine' light in my car sometimes comes on but then leaves after a day--it's done it twice. Should I check that bitch?
WHAT may or may not come from all of this is the fact that yes, sentience has left me with a shrug I have never shrugged before. Thanks.
bye |
| | Posted 1/14/2009 9:15 PM - 5 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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