“I bet Narcissus had some amazing wanks.”
Peter Serafinowicz
Argh I don't know. I had this great piece sort of structured in my head on the way home from work but now it isn't making any sense. The computer is barely functioning – now it seems to have come to life; sprung up at last. Jesus.
The place is abuzz with activity. Bill is licking out an empty carton of sour cream. Trish is reading, and eating microwaved food. I am lamenting roasted lizards. I am considering work loads and feeling my shoulders rise. They are just about to hit the bottoms of my ears. “The tension is palpable” is probably how they would write it in a hard-boiled detective story; or in a “penny dreadful.” At times like these I feel it is necessary to drink red wine. It sounds dumb, but it works out, mostly, more often than not. That is the best we can ask for.
This is the face of a twitter addict. I can't string two coherent sentences together anymore. Life has become a series of disjointed, chain-reacting, one-line jokes – maybe two – so long as it fits into the allotted 140 characters.
And the point, what I am getting back around to, is the narcissism involved in writing. “LOOK AT ME!” I scream it in this column, when I sing, play music, dance, post to my FaceBook account; tweet...
Hard Times
I'm having the weirdest time right now. I have this friend who is a very devout Christian, and he has been sending me some really strange information, that I am absolutely convinced is bullshit. He is so Goddamned convicted though! Any piece of information he gets, that fits into what he already believes, he is totally willing to believe that shit: 100 percent! 1,000 percent! I mean, I'm not even going to get into the content, it's horrible, offensive stuff; but the material is being generated by authors of, if any, dubious distinction; and their entire works will rely on a single, anecdotal source. It... I can't really even bring myself to formulate an appropriate rebuttal because I can't figure out where to start. What these “authors” are doing is making stories up to fit with an agenda.
A part of me feels like this is beautiful. If you have the ability to sculpt words like this – to more or less completely fabricate in order to advance your ideology – more power to you. I'm sure the anecdotes are based on a germ of truth. Everything is based on at least a germ of truth. These kinds of stories are a brilliant, warped, reflection of our innate desire to understand, to believe... in something.
See, the word is fickle, the word is manipulatable, the word is lugubrious. Nothing is at it seems; there is no fixed point in this Universe – save, possibly, that dense, dark, immaculate spot in the very center of the thing... there, maybe, finally, we could find some sort of order. Do you think? Now I'm not really sure...
madbob@madbob.com
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