Friday, December 4, 2009
I'm a bit of a mess. Not that this is a new thing, but now the mess seems to be leaking out, really gushing, from some tear in my seams and I'm drowning in my insides. Pretty bloody shitty, literally. I know that making absolutely no sense is in right now, extreme randomness and bollocks and all. But I do think that there should be sort of rhythm in there, secretly keeping time. Maybe I'm just pussy. On that note, it's like ipod-shuffle. You're leaving your whole musical experience up to chance, and I can't get enough of it. I'm overloaded with tracks and hits and bands and artists and musicals and genres and I don't know who I am anymore so you, mister ipod sir, you decide. Good choice.
By the way, no sense and nonsense are entirely different matters. Nonsense does have structure, even if you lot are not aware of that. For example, in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, which is modular nonsense lit, Alice exclaims; "Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin." Hope you caught my drift.
Wow, this is sad. As I'm new to blogger.com, I was surfin-an-turfin a little, to get the feel of the community and all, and most of the blogs I came across (99.9%) were of young mothers, dishing about their fresh tots. I hope this chain of parent-bloggers is just some freak accident. Honestly. I do encourage literature, in all shapes and sizes, but posting about your kids seems a somewhat ridicule. It just demands a big WHY? And we'll leave it at that.
I think that when we're young we convince ourselves that we are meant for greatness; Nobel prizes, curing HIV, rock-stardom, saving the planet, sex tapes, the whole deal. With age and possibly maturity we detect the illusion in our beliefs. We realize that we are all floating down the same mainstream; watching telly, midnight-snacks, dishwashing, walking the dog. No one is special, so fucking special.