As Elvis Costello says, let's not get stuck in the past.
My holiday was fun, my birthday was fun, blah blah blah.
Anyway, I'm going out with a guy on Thursday...he's quite uncomplicated and doesn't make me feel like my chest cavity is on fire. Fuck that, right? Safe is what adults do, right?
We'll probably get married.
But I do want to say: Love has nothing at all to do with physics or finance, and so often it is punched in the eye, thrown to the ground, and its head is crushed under a steel-tipped boot. It is then shoved into the trunk of a car, driven out to the East River, and dumped.
Yet love remains alive even as it goes down.
Like that thing in Leprechaun.
But nobody liked that thing in Leprechaun. It was actually the villain.
Is love ultimately a villain?
Over 50% of marriages fail. Of course, that's assuming all marriages are based on true love. And really, who gives a shit about that? It's so subjective. My love may be your bird poop. Your love may be my pie.
Isn't it easier to deal with event horizon (the clever lead in to the subject of my next post) and securities (financial and otherwise)?
No, I don't talk about things like this on dates--I suspect I'd not get any if I did!
This explains a lot.
Supposedly, I'm right brained.
"Your thought process can appear quite illogical and meandering... The problem-solving techniques that you use involve free association, which is often very innovative and creative."
http://www.testcafe.com/lbrb/lbrb.html
How dare you say that my behavior's unacceptable?
So condescending, unnecessarily critical..
Some mails have suggested that my current view of the stranglehold finance and physics has on society may be complemented by the buddhist philosophy I seem to have frowned on in my previous post.
Perhaps.
Except that I am quite full of love and affection. I have hope all over the place.
It is unfortunate.
I'm on purpose not addressing the first two lines of this post, as I don't want to tell you which cd I bought yesterday and cannot stop listening to.
Hope, like love, is a dog from hell.
Was speaking with Master Parker last night about getting older. And wouldn't you know, physics and finance came into the conversation; it seems that getting older basically entails making a living and rationally making sense of a world that has been spiralling out of control for a very long time.
Our dear Mr. Parker also agrees that hope is a disgusting invention of some clockmaker or cinematist; it is insidious and viral and a terrible problem to people everywhere. We should run that dog from hell down in a very heavy truck.
Okay he didn't agree to that. In fact he claims to have mastered hope through believing what sounds suspiciously like Buddhist philosophy. Clearly he hasn't read any Gibran, for one thing. But what kind of life is that, where one feels they have no power or purpose, like a reed in the wind? How does one then define love in that context, if it's all fucked (28 days later)?
It's certainly a less violent life. Is that what we really want, though?
Gently.
Been reading The End of the Affair by Graham Greene, who is a terrific writer (he also wrote the Third Man, an Orson Welles film with a zither soundtrack, and the Quiet American). I like it a lot.
More this afternoon, as it's foolish to be late thinking about WWII Britain when I have to work this morning. I hope to avoid the kind of dream I had yesterday, which was at once unbearably lovely and highly infuriating.
Not a whole week without blogging!
I had a couple that were supposed to automatically post....woops.
More to come later today all you vertebrats. Yes, I do mean vertebrats.
American girls are weather and noise. And, America.
If dreams are like movies than memories are films about ghosts.
So says Adam Duritz, a sensitive Oscar Wildean figure who writes some of the most touchy feely lyrics ever. And I'm a touchy feely gal. If I don't have to touch too much, or feel too much, and if I never have to admit that offline.
The thing is, I'm so fantastically American. I have a few friends who have no loyalty toward this country, and at times I'm extremely frightened by the other folk who live here--but while I don't define myself by my nationality, I find it's difficult to separate myself from it. New York City is stitched to me, and so is New Jersey and New Orleans and Wisconsin and maybe even Memphis. And knowing the history of the place, and all the shit that's gone down here, from the teabags to the hanging trees to internment camps to riots to riding on buses. All that's my shit. There's nothing one can do about love.
So I find myself in a similar position to Chris Heinz, who says he was raised to love this country and is bewildered; I'm not so much bewildered as furious that people seem to want to exclude others from an America that is already theirs, and furious that a (intellectually lazy) liar and a cheat has hoodwinked people into buying his dangerous brand of horsecrap. Don't get me started on the asshat "reporters" and the machines.
I blame this attack of megalomania on Adam Duritz, who is megalomaniacal himself and would understand.
Here's the 411.
On December 31, my sister recommended that I sit with a calendar and every hour set a month on fire. This year has been a great one, and by great I mean horrific...
although the kiddo is smiling and laughing and better--after 3 days of sitting with an IV and an oxygen nosy thing in the hospital. Which is fantastic.
When I am less angry I will write a post on the political situation in my country wherein I slag 59 million of my fellow Americans as bottom feeders, lemmings, and fearful mice. So look forward to that!
