tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62740802011-07-14T14:35:02.588-07:00oldmindsmadenewto become a poster, leave a commentleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comBlogger331100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1094008239906012332004-08-31T19:59:00.000-07:002004-08-31T20:10:39.906-07:00Cathy was a liar, but she did not lie the way most children do. Hers was no daydream lying, when the thing imagined is told and, to make it seem more real, told as real. That is just ordinary deviation from external reality. I think the difference between a lie and a story is that a story utilizes the trappings and appearance of truth for the interest of the listener as well as of the teller. A jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1093997998749903052004-08-31T16:45:00.000-07:002004-08-31T17:19:58.750-07:00I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents. Some you can see, misshapen and horrible, with huge heads or tiny bodies; some are born with no arms, no legs, some with three arms, some with tails or mouths in odd places. They are accidents and no one's fault, as used to be thought. Once they were considered visable punishment for concealed sins.
And just as there are physical jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1086651580894669752004-06-07T16:35:00.000-07:002004-08-31T16:44:42.733-07:00The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot (1925)
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyesjessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1086008458654625002004-05-31T05:59:00.000-07:002004-05-31T06:00:58.653-07:00ethnography airfoil eyebrow
tea party toward is outer.When industrial complex living with reactor reads a magazine, toward hand daydreams.ribbon for seek insurance agent living with philosopher.A few brides, and fruit cake from ball bearing) to arrive at a state of cyprus mulchcup a change of heart about polar bear from.A few debutantes, and related to grain of sand) to arrive at a state of Eludenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1085533052466412182004-05-25T17:48:00.000-07:002004-05-25T17:57:32.466-07:00THE DISHONEST MAILMAN
They are taking all my letters, and they
put them into a fire.
I see the flames, etc.
But do not care, etc.
They burn everything I have, or what little
I have. I don't care, etc.
The poet supreme, addressed to
emptiness--this is the courage
necessary. This is something
quite different.
_______________________________________
CHASING THE BIRD
The sun sets unevenly jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1082876459644684562004-04-25T00:00:00.000-07:002004-04-25T00:11:48.436-07:00It seemed to Bruno as though [Michel] were barely listening. It was like talking to a wall, or a psychiatrist, but he talked nonetheless.
“For years my son turned to me for love and I rejected him. I was depressed, I hated my life, I thought there’d be a time when I felt better. I didn’t realize how quickly the years would go by. Between seven and twelve, a child is an astonishing being—kind, Eludenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1082526630127256152004-04-20T22:50:00.000-07:002004-04-20T22:54:35.233-07:00“Abortion”
Your tickertape chatter
offers candy compliments on
my wit, my great good humor.
Your frozen words crack and smoke,
dry ice bouncing of these white walls
Your teeth grind out a seasick smile.
I know you mean well.
After all, you got the money.
you will leave these cool corridors
whispering to others how well I am taking it.
Someday you will marry a pleased virgin.
You will make the leighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1082005615138232322004-04-14T22:06:00.000-07:002004-04-25T12:23:00.560-07:00'I wish to speak to you now of a poor young girl whose name was Brigitte Bardot...At the time I knew her, in the bloom of her seventeen years, Brigitte Bardot was truly repulsive. First of all she was extremely fat, a porker and even a super-porker, with abundant rolls of fat gracelessly disposed at the intersections of her obese body. Yet had she followed a slimming diet of the most frightening Eludenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1081144635578564302004-04-04T22:23:00.000-07:002004-04-04T23:06:06.700-07:00What Tyler says about being the crap and the slaves of history, that's how I felt. I wanted to destroy everything beautiful I'd never have. Burn the Amazon rain forests. Pump chlorofluorocarbons straight up to gobble the ozone. Open the dump valves on supertankers and uncap offshore oil wells. I wanted to kill all the fish I couldn't afford to eat, and smother the French beaches I'd never see.
I jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1080180317474426872004-03-24T18:05:00.000-08:002004-03-24T18:08:45.873-08:00from Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Notes From Underground, Part 1:
III
...How stupid can one get? Isn't it much better to recognize the stone walls and the impossibilities for what they are and refuse to accept them if surrendering makes one too sick? Isn't it better, resorting to irrefutable logical constructions, to arrive at the most revolting conclusions on the eternal theme that you too, somehow, Eludenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1080023021782103282004-03-22T22:23:00.000-08:002004-03-22T22:27:07.513-08:00question and answer
he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
night, running the blade of the knife
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
of all the letters he had received
telling him that
the way he lived and wrote about
that--
it had kept them going when
all seemed
truly
hopeless.
putting the blade on the table, he
flicked it with a finger
and it whirled
in a flashing leighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1079753146404939972004-03-19T19:15:00.000-08:002004-03-19T19:29:07.826-08:00That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then whatjessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1079139320872703452004-03-12T16:53:00.000-08:002004-03-12T18:56:09.340-08:00An unexamined life is not worth living.
- Socrates.jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1078986201282552652004-03-10T22:23:00.000-08:002004-03-10T22:26:30.560-08:00This is just for Leigh. Please check carefully for any typos.
"As the months went by, David and some of the others plunged deeper into cruelty and horror. Sometimes they wore masks and filmed these scenes of carnage -- one of them was a producer for a video company and could get the tapes duplicated. A good snuff movie was worth a lot -- about twenty thousand dollars a copy. One night, at an Eludenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1078901340979039522004-03-09T22:49:00.000-08:002004-03-09T22:52:08.653-08:00More from Whatever, by Michel Houellebecq:
(from Chapter 1, Part 3)
"Friday and Saturday I didn't do much; let's just say I meditated, if you can call it that. I remember having thought of suicide, of its paradoxical usefulness. Let's put a chimpanzee in a tiny cage fronted by concrete bars. The animal would go berserk, throw itself against the walls, rip out its hair, inflict cruel bites on Eludenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1078814052148455632004-03-08T22:23:00.000-08:002004-03-08T22:37:18.466-08:00It's partly true , too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true.I don't give a damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me to act my age. Sometimes I act a lot older than I am--I really do--but people never notice it. People never notice anything.
_____________
"Oh... well, about life being a game and all. And how you should play it according to the rules.jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1078806064632588292004-03-08T20:21:00.000-08:002004-03-09T22:52:41.920-08:00An excerpt from Whatever by Michel Houellebecq:
(from Chapter 10, Part 2)
"Veronique had known too many discotheques, too many lovers; such a way of life impoverishes a human being, inflicting sometimes serious and always irreversible damage. Love as a kind of innocence and as a capacity for illusion, as an aptitude for epitomizing the whole of the other sex in a single loved being rarely Eludenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1078800471338286942004-03-08T18:47:00.000-08:002004-03-08T18:51:49.373-08:00TWENTY EIGHT
and the mouth tells me i'm not living right
and the ears hear silence from my lips
and the chin on my face falls to the floor
as i'm accused of abort
and the lips say i am bad
and i can't live this way
and i should conform to normality
and she reminds me i'm twenty-eight
and my eyes shed tears in the back of my head
and my brain tells me to run
and my body wants to drive away
but, leighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1078272774352933662004-03-02T16:09:00.000-08:002004-03-02T16:15:52.360-08:00People took such awful chances with chemicals and their bodies because they wanted the quality of their lives to improve. They lived in ugly places where there where only ugly things to do. They didn't own doodley-squat, so they couldn't improve their surroundings. So they did their best to make their insides beautiful instead.
- Kurt Vonnegut
Breakfast of Championsjessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1077516881013268732004-02-22T22:04:00.000-08:002004-02-22T22:19:51.123-08:00When we got outside of the Duke of New York we viddied, by the main bar's long lighted window, a burbling old pyahnista or drunkie, howling away at the filthy songs of his fathers and going blerp blerp in between as it might be a filthy old orchestra in his stinking rotten guts. One veshch I could never stand was that. I could never stand to see a moodge all filthy and rolling and burping and jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1076485836768051792004-02-10T23:50:00.000-08:002004-02-10T23:53:05.780-08:00The world I live in is loathsome to me, but i feel one with the men who suffer in it. There are ambitions that are not mine, and I should net feel at ease if I had to make my way by relying on the paltry privileges granted to those who adapt themselves to this world. But it seems to me that there is another ambition that ought to belong to all writers: to bear witness and shout aloud, every leighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1076464656313376252004-02-10T17:57:00.000-08:002004-02-10T18:00:04.890-08:00Talking with my beloved in New York
I stood at the outdoor public telephone
in Mexican sunlight, in my purple shirt.
Someone had called it a man/woman
shirt. The phrase irked me. But then
I remembered that Rainer Maria
Rilke, who until he was seven wore
dresses and had long yellow hair,
wrote that the girl he almost was
"made her bed in his ear" and "slept him the world."
I thought, OK this shirtleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1075443341615165482004-01-29T22:06:00.000-08:002004-01-29T22:18:49.280-08:00 Use sunscreen! Don't smoke cigarettes.
Cigars, however, are good for you. There is even a magazine celebrating their enjoyment, with male role models, athletes, actors, rich guys with trophy wives, on its covers. Why not the surgeon general? Cigars, of course, are made of trail mix, of crushed cashews and Granola and raisins, soaked in maple syrup and dried in the sun. Why not eat one jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1074895281484238352004-01-23T13:52:00.000-08:002004-01-23T14:03:35.793-08:00And I say that your nation, on the other hand, has recieved from its sons only the love it deserved, which was blind. A notion is not justified by such love. that will be your undoing. And you who were already conquered in your greatest victories, what will you be in the approaching defeat?
Letters To A German Friend: First Letter
He was only slightly above average height, with thick, curly leighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1074581816160114862004-01-19T22:48:00.000-08:002004-01-19T23:00:47.576-08:00The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1074495728689730382004-01-18T23:02:00.000-08:002004-01-18T23:04:06.716-08:00Oh well... it doesn't matter... no... He did not believe in the stage, he always laughed at my dreams and little by little I left off believing in it too, and lost heart... And then I was fretted by love and jealousy, and continually anxious over my little one... I grew petty and trivial, I acted stupidly... I did not know what to do with my arms, I did not know how to stand on the stage, couldleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1074039560906206092004-01-13T16:10:00.000-08:002004-01-13T16:21:24.296-08:00On the wall hung a picture of an ugly old Cape Cod house. His friends said, "Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?" and Bull said, "I like it because it's ugly." All his life was in that line.
Jack Kerouac, On the Roadandwerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10736438068424246726noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1073634853099126382004-01-08T23:54:00.000-08:002004-01-08T23:54:32.730-08:00Perhaps the easiest way of making a town's aquaintance is to ascertain how the people in it work, how they love, and how they die. In our little town (is this, one wonders, an effect of the climate?) all three are done on much the same lines, with the same feverish yet casual air. The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits. Our citizens work hard, but solelyleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1073539658543844892004-01-07T21:11:00.000-08:002004-01-07T21:31:40.916-08:00I still smart a little at the sight. When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable and trifling. My life is like a momento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and say, "You've got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but i do not jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1073535361673513652004-01-07T20:11:00.000-08:002004-01-07T20:30:42.806-08:00America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03994555985589056503noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1073345031091095092004-01-05T15:23:00.000-08:002004-01-05T15:24:10.206-08:00"They wouldn't dare really stock Saint Elmo's Remedy today, of course, it was so bad for people. The poster is just a joke. But they have a modern prescription counter, where you can get barbiturates and amphetamines and methaqualones and so on.
Science marches on."
"That is my principal objection to life, i think: It is too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes."
Kurt leighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1073288568019232432004-01-04T23:31:00.000-08:002004-01-06T21:39:55.873-08:00"And all this time Dean was tremendously excited about everything he saw, and everything he talked about, every detail of every moment that passed. He was out of his mind with real belief. 'And of course no one can tell us that there is no God. We've passed through all forms You remember, Sal, when I first came to New York and I wanted Chad King to teach me about Nietzsche. You see how long ago? jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08782942560031162863noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6274080.post-1073047639589625012004-01-02T04:47:00.000-08:002004-01-02T04:47:37.433-08:00This was a goddess who could not dance, would not dance, and hated everybody at the highschool. She would like to claw away her face, she told us, so that people would stop seeing things in it that had nothing to do with what she was like inside. She was ready to die at any time, she said, because what men and boys thought about her and tried to do to her made her so ashamed. One of the first leighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05468881793477328971noreply@blogger.com