Wednesday, September 19, 2007

I am a chemical ball, etc.

I must apologize for it has been quite some time since my last note. Rest assured I am still alive and kicking. But bear with me, dear Reader, for these notes are not mere simulacra of Truth and Beauty that I toss off over my tea break. Oh no. They are spittings from my gut, from my core. So if perhaps my words occasionally taste of bile, it is because Truth is not polished Hollywood-style; rather, it consists of the vomiting hobo as well as the merry Everyman and his picture-postcard famille. In fact, the hobo is closer to the core than the Everyman, as his mind is uncluttered by the world and its stream of propaganda (last time I checked, the typical box-car does not contain the ubiquitous plasma screen or even the apparatus necessary to plug such a device into an alternating current).

But tit for tat, as the hobo's mind is unfortunately cluttered by the soot and dirt he inhales as he catches "the drift." The more I think about it, the more I realize we are all little more than chemical balls...

Helga has quit her post. I miss her blonde beauty and the various duties she performed. I wish I could say that she moved on because opportunity knocked, but alas, the blame is entirely Myoki's. Myoki, you Buddhist turd! Why must you make yourself a guru to every acquaintance you make? You are a bastard and no longer welcome in my home. Find another swimmer, you leach. That is not chi you suck on, 'tis my blood, you meditating, bloodsucking baboon.

Monday, September 3, 2007

Farewell, fair Summer. Autumn, I welcome you as a brother.

The other day I was picnicking solitarily by the stream that runs through the estate, and I must confess that I shed a tear upon seeing a tree shed a leaf. Oft times I see my soul thus reflected in Nature's furnishings, and the semblance is never stronger than in the autumn time. Summer is a youthful maid; Autumn is my brother.

Ah! fair Summer, thy lover shall miss thee and thy sweet kisses. He knows that, though we shall sport occasionally in the coming weeks, it is but a transient affair and that thou art on thy way to a well-deserved rest in the underworld (incidentally, fair Reader, I watched the film "Pan's Labyrinth" the other day and enjoyed it immensely).

Autumn interrupts our final lovemaking with a knock on the door. In frustration I greet him and his inevitable arrival. In an open robe, I open the door; he looks like me. We are slightly past our prime. He whispers in my ear: "We shall only get worse."

Summer, I say goodbye with a kiss of sorrow. You whisper "carpe diem," but I can seize nothing but the dust in the air.

Autumn, I welcome you with a firm handshake.

I shall dress in an ashen grey till this mood pass.