VII

But these are all golden dreams.
Oh, tell me, who first announced, who was the first to proclaim
that man does dirty only because he doesn't know his real interests; and that were he to be enlightened, were his eyes to be opened to his real, normal interests, man would immediately stop doing dirty, would immediately become good and noble...etc., etc.
Notes from Underground

I am realaxed, watching Hannah and Her Sisters and writing.
It feels good. I love this movie. I used to watch it over and over with my kid sister. The older you get, the more it makes sense--kinda like Looney Tunes.

A student handed me a book this week, she asked if I was between books. Luckily I am at a place with the books I am reading that a change would be nice.
"Here," she thrust the book into my hand.
"I read it in one sitting--five hours," she announced. I thought to myself that if she applied half that time to her studies she would be valedictorian.
But I love Sarah.

The book, written by the same author as Fight Club is called Choke by Chuck Palahniuk. So far, so good.


Must close and get going. BYE BYE BIRDIE meeting tonight. Ahh, and the noise from the neighbors is slowly rising as the night progresses...too bad they have terrible taste in tunes.

Hope you are well. Ciao.

apropos

“Apropos of the Wet Snow”
When from out of error’s darkness
With a word both sure and ardent
I had drawn the fallen soul,
And you, filled with deepest torment,
Cursed the vice that had ensnared you
And so doing wrung your hands;
When punishing with recollection
Forgetful conscience, you then told
The tale of all that went before me,
And suddenly you hid your face
In trembling hand and, filed with horror,
Filled with shame, dissolved with tears,
Indignant as you were, and shaken..
Etc, etc, etc.

From poetry of N. A. Nekrasov

Chapter IX
He admits that man feels a compulsion to create, but that he feels an equally strong urge to destroy. Animals delight in the creations they have made, as ants delight in an anthill they have built. Man, on the other hand, takes pleasure only in the creative process, never in its end result. Man senses that after he fully achieves all of his goals, there will be nothing left to do, and so he fears that achievement.

This is where I am with my stuff...

Sad that when you google this poem the first thing that comes up is a FLKR photo page, followed by some idiot-blog.

I saw Andrew Bird last night and the crowd reminded me of the same snobs that I met when at the Yo La Tengo show at Birdies. “Yahhh, he’s so amazing…” Shut the fuck up, you poser.

I hate my neighbors. I cannot decide whether I live in a trailer park or a glorified dorm..
I find it horrific that moving up to a nicer place means I have to deal with higher tech toys. Rich kids are assholes.