part of it might be the slightly discouraging fact that some words which i once used fairly effortlessly, with faculty and clarity, even, now seem clogged like some species of oatmeal between my medulla and my mucous membranes. perhaps it's what happens when you take time off from a steady and nutrituous diet of required reading.
i'm walking around the building complex and rabbits hurtle like little furred bullets from under bush canopy. a panoply of canopy. canopy canape. (i've misplaced my accent aigue, how devestatingly gauche. but look, extra franglish cures what ails ya.) it's like a little Disney movie in one corner. chipmunks, variously mysterioso spoor, oddly synchronized swoops of bird armies, possible Charlottes in every web.
and i'm just thinking on my foot beatings and my rotations and my serious yet aimless cuttings through molecules: either i die tomorrow, or i do not. either i become famous, or i do not. either i live to 100 or i do not. dear god, hopefully not. either i die in a flaming Spider or i do not. either somebody reads this, or they do not. either i care, or i do not.
specifically, there's someone out there in interspace who deserves a lot worse than what i suspect he/she gets. is getting. got. amendments without backspacery is the way to go. sort of gertrude stein. because what good are rambles if they're not pointed in parts?
how many of you feel entitled. titled, i suppose, happens at birth, when parents sometimes give humorous monikers to their hapless drooling monsters ("Hugh Jiquant! etc.). i wonder sometimes, though, if it's an American thing, this feeling of absolute blind certainty that we deserve the best. the biggest fucking pair of white sneakers. that we will "make it there," and, "anywhere" not generally being glamorous enough, fill in a metropolis with hot tubbed housing of your choice.
it's just so damned dark in this room. and it's just so damned lumpy in the glands. and INCREDIBLY hard to write anything without monkey-like immediacies of analysis and innumerable comparisons to the already-read. i hate academia. it's made me a faster reader and a slower writer.
Because, you see, i feel like i have surprisingly low needs as far as one's standards of living are inclined to go. The ability to have friends, travel an hour by car on a whim, buy groceries, one winter coat, medical care, to have friends who get amusement out of the littles and can seriously discuss the bigs. No "pimp my ride" with those fucking wheel spinnies and the dvd player in the backseat. I hate the entire state of California. (obviously as a state of mind. i used to live there. this isn't about you. Is that Carly Simon i hear playing in the background? Station identification, please.) Maybe I just hate Los Angeles.
I am the fucking Renaissance amoeba, and I will track you all down and take you around the world in eighty ways.
and what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. as unapproachably standing with pointed toes in the DJ crawlspace while jarvis cocker spaniels melancholize to the ashes of joy division, as the 1986s smoke my cigarettes and 1990 starts wetting the bed in earnest. (oh you dirty minds, how i love thee.) and jesus christ, cursing is sometimes the only fun you can have for no money down and a balloon ride, ponies optional, hairbrushing encouraged. 80 dollars is no small shakes for a 3 minute song, no wonder all these girls. And I one of them, casually so, enjoying the lip tilt-a-furl and mixing my drink metaphors. the bathroom mirror lighting is always green and filled with beauty and grace--underrated in these modern times--and the proper coffee spoons and walking away, impeccably so.
Fuck the internet. I want to go hiking. There's an old Scottish hermit in town with a castle built 3 hours by foot and only by foot from the nearest carway, minted in 1860 or something, and what a dedication for door-to-door salesmen. Let's go. Pickernick?
And still this burning behind the eyes of overqualification and wishing for the McFly machine.