Of the new year and Dirt Music
I wish that my laptop booted up to something other than XP and that 3G wasn’t such a spectacular pain in the ass…There you go for the random thought of the day. I know that I have been sadly lacking in the posting department but my kingdom has been…well, as muddled as horse dung in a fine consommé.
I am a bit lost. Not so lost as not to just at least look at the bloody soul-Garmin, but my rugged individualism* forbids such a thing. I am not sure where my life is going, and that is a daunting, yellow bellied thing.
I’ve been reading. Krugaza-san, without you I would be lost. You give me words that speak directly to the self in me I very rarely give attention**. You were right. Perhaps not something you often hear but still something you should hear. You have given me a book that has its strangely beautifully skeletal fingers insinuated into my spine. Marrow to marrow.
Tim Winton has stolen my breath and used it to shape words that I’ve felt, and known, but have never had the talent, nor the drive, to speak.
Page 4 of Dirt Music: “…Still, you had to admit that it was nice to be without a body for a while; there was an addictive thrill in being of no age,with no gender, with no past. It was an infinite sequence of opening portals, of menus and corridors that let you into brief, painless encounters, where what passed for life was a listless kind of browsing. World without consequence, amen. And in it she felt light as an angel.”
My connection is fubarring me. But whatever, here’s to writing for the first time in weeks, without the hope of reaching another mind. Into the void we go, with the soundtrack of Donnie Darko, echoing in the background***.
Before Dirt Music I was reading an Ursula Le Guin, Voices. In it she speaks so eloquently of books and their import. In one day I’ve managed to read words that enliven me. It’s been awhile. As you know, I love mind candy but I’ve been shaken out of this sodden horse blanket funk I’ve been in.
If you’ve ever flirted with despair you would understand the severe suckiness of not being able to trust your mind. For some stupid reason people seem to understand hormones as something a menopausal woman experiences instead of the thing it truly is. Hormones are the carriers of every reaction in your body. Good, ugly, or bad.
So, when those sons of bitches decide to mope, you are, to put it sweetly, marooned in an endless sea of despair. Yeah, I said it. Despair. In all of its joy draining bleh-ness. It saps hope, joy de vivre and dammit-I’m-alive-so-screw-you. It happily quaffs your endorphins and dribbles love down it’s pocked chin while trying to clumsily feel up the hapless wench who serves it.
*It’s a family saying, only barely disguising a genetic mess up of socially stunting proportions.
**I am after all, like most humans, a strange sheep-tortoise hybrid. Why deal with life, and it’s terrifying twists and turns when in stead, you hide. Hide and follow. Meeeehhhh, bitch, meeeeh.
***Something to which I am hurrying.
Recent Entries
- Of the new year and Dirt Music
- Of the guilty pleasure of watching The Bachelor
- Of marrying Twitter, Feedly and Google Wave
- Of teeth grinding frustration and the sheer awesome that is Google Wave
- Of stumbling down memory lane or how memory shapes personality
- Of beautiful girls
- Of total geekness
- Of bloody consequences
- Of being a lazy person
- Of rambling anxiety
