Filed under: self indulgence
Running from place to place. Chased off by things I do not love; too seldom in pursuit of things I do love. Reactionary. Futile but never tedious. Perhaps, the love is of entropy and reorganization, The Tower, Kali, the Phoenix.
Filed under: unsolicited opinions
Its getting colder here. The socks I spent the past three months shunning are calling to my toes. Sweaters. Down blankets. I’m not ready yet.
I want the sun on my shoulders, sand in my pants, chafing. Peeling skin. Naps. Sweat pooling in the small of my back.
But its almost time to hole up. The elements are coming for me. Boston will get worse. We will be even farther away from each other. More clothes. Piles of frozen water.
The cement is about to get harder, the people more frigid.
Filed under: art/writing
I stopped for a drunk passed out in the lot next to my office building yesterday on my way home. He wasn’t breathing right, and was laid out on his back not moving, too close to the street to not be concerned. Another woman stopped after me…
“Is he OK?” I asked.
“I think he’s listening to music.”
“He isn’t breathing right…”
We waffled over calling an ambulance for a couple seconds, and I approached him. His headphones had fallen out of his ears and across his face. There was half a bottle of Wild Turkey at his side, and he had a black eye. I bent over him.
“Sir, are you OK?”
No response. I touched his arm, and shook it gently. He opened his eyes a bit, his mouth hung open.
“Sir? Are you OK? Are you hurt?”
“You’re… lovely…”
“Sir, are you just drunk or are you hurt? Did someone hit you?”
“I’m drunk AND hurt… You really… are lovely…”
“Thank you. Do you need to go to the hospital?”
He feel asleep. I went back to the sidewalk where another passerby was calling an ambulance. The drunk was breathing better, and his color was good. He had not moved.
“Bad day,” the woman said.
“Bad life,” I replied.
I washed my hands at the train station.
Clam loves her Kong. Stuff a couple of duck chips in it, and she will work to get them out for hours. She’ll gnaw, lick, flip, and drop it until she can work the treats out. She never tires of it, and she never becomes more adept. Clam knows that she will get the reward if she just keeps at it.
She takes equal pleasure in manipulating the toy. Pleasure in the means and the end.
The smarter the animal, the more difficult the task should be. The more difficult the task and the more fulfilling the ends, the greater the pleasure received and time dedicated to the task. Animals enjoy working for rewards.
Obtaining food, mating, nurturing the young, determining territory. Rooting, foraging, stalking… Cats do not discriminate in what they hunt; they will kill insects, birds, reptiles, and rodents without prejudice. Not merely for consumption — for pleasure. The more intelligent the animal, the more complex the needs. Promiscuous dolphins and bonobos copulating with individuals of the same sex. Not for procreation — for pleasure.
Take a wild animal out of its natural habitat and it still needs to fulfill its natural habits and appetites. Animals that cannot fulfill those needs — a pig who cannot root, a monkey who cannot forage, a cat without prey — go insane. They develop stereotypies. Their appetite is abnormal. They self mutilate.
So what of us? Is this our natural habitat?
Am I so domesticated that I do not have the urge to hunt? I have never killed an animal for consumption, removed its entrails, skewered, and cooked it. Is this what “civilized” means, that I will never have to fulfill my natural inclination to feed myself? Is driving down to the HEB, Stop and Shop, Albertson’s really it?
Hypersexualized symbols in the media, intended to stimulate our appetites, and cold, perfect, and sterile. Not intended to sweat, not meant to grunt, never to suffer semen dripping down the insides of their legs, or to enjoy any of it. Insufferably pristine. Fragile.
My home is a collection of objects and tools that I do not need. They are nice to have, but I will not suffer without them. Building my nest, staking my territory, for no offspring.
All watered down. Spread the resources around. Make it possible to feed everyone. Give us Ikea, give us Loews Theaters, give us Patron, give us Britney Spears. Keep us from killing each other by offering distractions. Give us Kongs filled with duck chips, and we’ll keep ourselves occupied until we die, gnawing, drooling, dropping just to keep from knowing that we fail.
Throwing myself against the bars over and over and over…
Chuck suggested we watch the first episode of Fringe, J.J. Abrams’ new project on Fox tonight. For a number of reasons (not least of which was the inclusion of Pacy in the casting), I was skeptical. But, hey, Cloverfield was really fucking good! And before it turned X-Files and started meandering along on the whimsical flights of the writers, Lost was fun.
However, J.J. is (in some capacity) responsible for the following: Forever Young, Felicity, Alias, and Armageddon.
And now… FRINGE. Fuckin’ awful.
I’m kicking myself for criticizing a show about the occult — oops, I mean “fringe science” — as being completely implausible, but here I am. The show is absolutely absurd. Agent Ladycakes McToughy Loverstein is all but impatient to jump into a vat of brackish water, with a probe in her spinal column, doped up on a cocktail of Ketamine, LSD, and a seizure medication (which I am certain was included because of its very “sciencey” name — Neurontin — hey, I’m on that!) to save her contrived lover from a melty fate. Where’s Taco Bell when you need it, anyway?
Sure, the melty people looked awesome, but it isn’t enough to overcome the horrendous acting on the parts of Agent Ladycakes McToughy Loverstein and Pacy. Pacy. As a 190 IQ genius. No. Never ever. The day that Joshua Jackson is smarter than I, is the day I slit my wrists and poor my life blood down the garbage disposal.
Melty people versus Pacy, bad acting, piss poor dialogue/writing, and the notion that Harvard would hand lab space over to a scientist accused of performing experiments on humans and committed for the past decade.
I’m sitting here cracked out on carrots and Diet Cherry Coke (correction: Zero Cherry Coke — “diet” isn’t hip, apparently) killing flies. Flies are everywhere. I have killed over two dozen in less than 48 hours. I made up fly traps out of empty Zero Cherry Coke cans, vinegar, and sugar. I forgot to count the dead flies in the cans… Over 30 deaths. My house is a concentration camp for the fuckers.
I do not know where they came from or why they want to be here. There is nothing in the trash can. The sink is empty. The garbage disposal is clean. The cat box is emptied.
Clam keeps biting at them as I sit here with my can of soda (the 6th or 7th today).
The caffeine is keeping me awake.
Drugs are making me woozy.
I kept eating carrots.
I ate half of the bag.
I want to vomit.
