Sunday, October 10, 2004

ophelia dreamhorse and the ursine differentiation engine

I used to spend lots of time sitting around thinking of something for me to do. I had that problem all the time. I don’t any longer. I have lots of time spent sitting around and talking to other students as we smoke. We discuss where on the hierarchy of Buddhist reincarnation various animals lie. I am perennially tempted to draw a comparison to the residents of the tuberculosis clinic in the magic mountain, but I choose not to.

Viva la muerte.

My Girl asked me about my blog. I didn’t give her the address. She’s very reserved and afraid of offense, and so it makes it easy not to do too much in the relationship. And yet I don’t want to explain my blog and all the things I’ve said and done because I believe that you have to just crack open your skull and put your insides on the outside and if you can phrase it in a more interesting manner, well, more’s the better.

And I had lunch with Sister Ophelia Dreamhorse, gnarling slowly into a grinding death like a really good Sonic Youth song, of which there is approximately one per album.

My Girl listens to me a lot and and often asks me “Are you OK?“ and it doesn’t really seem to matter if I don’t listen back too much, whereas today I heard about all the sorrows of every person Sister has ever graced with her presence.

Do you hate me and Cassius Fey?
No(, but thank you for putting it bluntly.)
Will you come to the wedding?
No(, but there’s a gulf between hatred and fondness, you know.)

It’s all about the ecstasy, you see. I told you about this. How I am tempted by the image of the lone gunslinger, the lone samurai, the man with no connections and no engagement with the world and only his skill. I’ve lived some time on that end of things.

Your cells, they are constantly oxidizing and this is your life, a constant burning as your body is internally engulfed by flame and making and unmaking and yet you’re the same person every day they say. But still you have to do something with your life, yet doing stuff, like Kristanna Loken in Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, as opposed to doing nothing does not solve the eternal problem of “having to have something to say” in all situations. It just doesn’t.

Surround me and hound me taking a leather strap bound me, I’m sorry, I meant bind me but oh yeah let’s listen to some Metallica, baby, cos yer stringy blond hair and too large black tshirt hanging like a tent over the protruding veins which map your body...well, it’s so fucking hot. Ably and nobly known knobby kneed needs nothing new too nice. With mechanical items that make it easier to sail around town. Shine, show, slow, teasing, teetering towering blisty midwifery and dim cuckoos.

But we have known these people for some time, and discussed them for far too long. Let us look on to a time when the young Zero, furiously punching and wiggling a 1/8” plug carrying the cloying harmonies of Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra’s first album around inside his jack. He can short circuit, sending him into waves of inconceivable ecstasy which induce vibrations in the fabric of the universe, patterned out in equal harmony, like a sound that induces a taut string to vibration in sympathy. With the source of all universal power in his hands, surely he’d be able to find a chick who could give him an adequate job.

But this is in the far future, and we should not be concerned with them, as a small autistic child stares into a snow globe, his elaborate interwoven fantasies of eighties television shows having no bearing on the story at hand.

Viva la muerte!

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