Finally it is fragrant spring--sensual spring--and happy is my heart that the snow has long-last melted; no longer does my soul feel captive and tortured; no longer does my heart feel as though it is slowly freezing deep into a mechanical stasis--what a scientist might term Death--from which it shall never wake. I incant: Spin vortex spin! Impregnate me with inspiration and dreams that transcend my robot-like physiology! And I lament: If only my beloved ferret were still alive--not a victim to the frozen world but a hero in the verdant one--if only he were bounding through the open fields, squeaking in strange, primordial rhythms, bristled fur wrinkling down his tube-like body like salty ocean waves. And I wonder: Would he, like me, feel the strange and frustrating ambiguity of April memory and April desire? Would he, like me, feel slightly disappointed after the high expectations of winter? Or are ferrets utterly blind to feeling, as popular Biology professes?
Through sheer power of will, I quiet my pestering thoughts and remove my clothes to roll through the fragrant fields of chamomile flowers. I roll sensually towards a pretty rill located at the bottom of a bumpy slope, and I weep, and I wonder: Are these tears of rage or are they tears of joy? Or am I so utterly pedestrian that they are the standard tears of sadness like those felt by an adolescent over the synchronicity of an unrequited love and a fresh batch of pimples? I know not, for I know nothing... I know only that they are tears--real ones at that--and that my knowledge is not true. No, I am not satisfied, no... No... I am not content to merely roll--instinctively merged--man and terra firma--beautiful but without the satisfaction of an Epistemology that resonates and rings throughout the entire core and being.
I roll... I roll... Growing older as I go...
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Alice in Emoland
It was the rumoured propensity for suffering that initially drew me towards the dark flame of the Emo world. A little bird once told me these bastards like to bleed, and oft on my Sunday hashish stroll through the park, I would encounter the sullen-faced, floppy-haired creatures naval-gazing and weeping for the oily garbage on the ground (or perhaps it was for the oily garbage in their brains... or perhaps it was for the adolescent oil in their hair... or perhaps it was, devil-be-damned, for no reason at all). I asked a park whore what these creatures be and she replied, "They are Emos--it is short for Emotionals." Ah, they do seem a touch sensitive, I thought, and it was then that I resolved to go home and conduct some Internet research for I had a strange inclination that there was a little corner in my soul that resonated with the spirit of Emo.
I almost jumped out of my body when I looked up and saw Lord Byron looking down on me. "Childe Harold!" I ejaculated, before realizing it was just a statue.
Once back at the estate, I brought my new notebook computer out to Gibbon Forest. I had recently invested in a wireless network that would allow me to surf the Internet whilst basking beneath Apollo's sweet springtime rays--today I would test it for the first time, and I must admit, I had my doubts. As I logged on, I mused, "Dear Apollo, god of wisdom, god of beauty, god of poesy true, let this connection be secure from fiends and let my signal soar past the highest peak of Mount Parnassus."
Miraculously, before I incanted the final phrase, a popup told me I was, indeed, connected.
"Off to Wikipedia!" I said aloud as I began the revered ceremony of Absinthe preparation. Ah, how the faerie danced in the sunlight as the particles of sugar dripped through the pores of the specialized spoon one by one.
Dance my lady, dance filthily for me; dance, dance, dance, around the maypole primordial.
In the distance, the gibbons howled.
It is not yet Walpurgisnacht, yet the line between fantasy and reality was narrow to the extreme. What follows is more a curiosity than a blog entry. Indeed, I have no recollection of the Internet session in Gibbon Forest, but upon awakening I found a strange note typed haphazardly in Wingdings font in Microsoft Word. Upon converting the font to Times New Roman, it read as follows:
The Emo is black and impotent with vision obscured by an asymmetrical haircut. Pain-obsessed and pimply, he cuts out of boredom and lack of art supplies. Two hours ago I thought perhaps I was an Emo, but I am not. I am an Aesthete, not an Emo, though not an Aesthete proper... I am no one, not even myself, thank God...
EGO sum an Aesthete, non an Emo, sententia non an Aesthete verus.
To green... To green... To green...
"Nigel?"
"Hello!"
"I have created a MySpace account... MySpace, I discovered, is the Jerusalem of the Emo.
"Shalom and sorrow."
"Yes... Well I must tell you, bodily Nigel (for I am not real), I messaged the hottest one I could find and invited her over for supper and discussion of her kind. It is a sexual ploy, of course. She is due at sundown."
"Cage the gibbons!"
"Yes..."
The sun will soon be sinking. I am sober and feeling foolish. I often terrify myself when I indulge... I am a mixture--a demon and a god--and I worry of schizophrenia. I do not know what I will do if and when the doorbell rings, but I confess there is a succulent duck roasting slowly in the oven.
I almost jumped out of my body when I looked up and saw Lord Byron looking down on me. "Childe Harold!" I ejaculated, before realizing it was just a statue.
***
Once back at the estate, I brought my new notebook computer out to Gibbon Forest. I had recently invested in a wireless network that would allow me to surf the Internet whilst basking beneath Apollo's sweet springtime rays--today I would test it for the first time, and I must admit, I had my doubts. As I logged on, I mused, "Dear Apollo, god of wisdom, god of beauty, god of poesy true, let this connection be secure from fiends and let my signal soar past the highest peak of Mount Parnassus."
Miraculously, before I incanted the final phrase, a popup told me I was, indeed, connected.
"Off to Wikipedia!" I said aloud as I began the revered ceremony of Absinthe preparation. Ah, how the faerie danced in the sunlight as the particles of sugar dripped through the pores of the specialized spoon one by one.
Dance my lady, dance filthily for me; dance, dance, dance, around the maypole primordial.
In the distance, the gibbons howled.
***
It is not yet Walpurgisnacht, yet the line between fantasy and reality was narrow to the extreme. What follows is more a curiosity than a blog entry. Indeed, I have no recollection of the Internet session in Gibbon Forest, but upon awakening I found a strange note typed haphazardly in Wingdings font in Microsoft Word. Upon converting the font to Times New Roman, it read as follows:
The Emo is black and impotent with vision obscured by an asymmetrical haircut. Pain-obsessed and pimply, he cuts out of boredom and lack of art supplies. Two hours ago I thought perhaps I was an Emo, but I am not. I am an Aesthete, not an Emo, though not an Aesthete proper... I am no one, not even myself, thank God...
EGO sum an Aesthete, non an Emo, sententia non an Aesthete verus.
To green... To green... To green...
"Nigel?"
"Hello!"
"I have created a MySpace account... MySpace, I discovered, is the Jerusalem of the Emo.
"Shalom and sorrow."
"Yes... Well I must tell you, bodily Nigel (for I am not real), I messaged the hottest one I could find and invited her over for supper and discussion of her kind. It is a sexual ploy, of course. She is due at sundown."
"Cage the gibbons!"
"Yes..."
***
The sun will soon be sinking. I am sober and feeling foolish. I often terrify myself when I indulge... I am a mixture--a demon and a god--and I worry of schizophrenia. I do not know what I will do if and when the doorbell rings, but I confess there is a succulent duck roasting slowly in the oven.
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