All Bets Are Off: Non Sequiturs II
My mother flew to London this weekend. She didn’t fly; she was a passenger on a plane. She went to celebrate my great aunt’s 90th birthday. She said she’d rather attend a birthday party than a funeral. Those are the truest words I’ve encountered in quite some time.
On Friday, I walked out the door of my apartment building and saw a police truck. For some reason – well for topographical reasons – the community to which I belong uses police trucks, not cars. I was two steps out the door when another truck pulled up and asked which apartment Medicine Bull lived in. Mr. Medicine Bull lives across the hall from me. I pointed to his apartment, the officer entered the door, and I spent the walk to school chewing over various possibilities. A pungent chemical smell has lately invaded the hallway of the complex, and I thought perhaps my neighbor has himself a meth lab. I believe now that it was a simple, run-of-the-mill case of domestic abuse, though there is no such thing as a simple, run-of-the-mill case of domestic abuse.
I’ve been reading a bit of Melville of late. Bartleby is a bit Kafka with undue gravitas, methinks. I do like the writing. Am fascinated by it.
I am enmeshed in a situation with a person with whom I wish to speak, to whom I have things to say, and yet silence persists. She is in the intermountain West, as am I, but we are quite a ways apart.
A man with an indistinct European accent called today, identifying himself as a representative of K2 Financial. I was nasty. I asked him if he liked being called by strangers when he was at home minding his own business and feeling a bit grim at how little his business amounted to. I changed course, offered a half-apology – “you’ve caught me right in the middle of something” – and hung up.
DeLillo’s Underworld bears revisiting. I can picture Klara Sax swimming.
Budweiser announces itself pluralistic right there before your eyes on the can: Beer, Bier, Cerveza, Birra, Biere. I am somewhat disappointed that the company couldn’t adhere to a nativist platform.
A selected montage of personal musical experiences: Ode to Joy on the recorder; Louie Louie on the guitar (bastardized); Come As You Are on the guitar (somewhat bastardized and wholly incomplete); everything under the sun on the drums, except complicated jazz and anything that is not relatively simple four-on-the-floor rock (which is to say: some shit on the drums that involves the hi-hat, kicker, and snare).
I would advise you to apprehend some wood and a pit to hold it in and start a fire. Sit by it for awhile, with a companion or three and maybe beer or no beer – no matter. Conversations are informed by fires. Simple as that, they are. Get to a space where this is possible. You are missing out.
This is how the first chapter of section I don’t know what ends (see 399-400) “They dissolved, as the saying goes, in laughter, they practically disappeared into their constituent elements, into atoms and molecules, a couple of girls in a gangster Packard, blown forward in time, and Klara stood on the roof sipping tepid wine and hearing people say, We need theater, and she knew she would tell this story to Miles and she also knew she could never again have a friend like Rochelle and mother like her mother for that matter and she looked across ledges and parapets to the old skyscraper with the massed midsection and the sunburst paneling, ten blocks north, and thought how wonderful it was, what an accidental marvel to come upon a memory floating at the level of a glazed mosaic high on a midtown tower – the old spoked sun that brings you luck.”
Wake up. There's a book going on here.
On Friday, I walked out the door of my apartment building and saw a police truck. For some reason – well for topographical reasons – the community to which I belong uses police trucks, not cars. I was two steps out the door when another truck pulled up and asked which apartment Medicine Bull lived in. Mr. Medicine Bull lives across the hall from me. I pointed to his apartment, the officer entered the door, and I spent the walk to school chewing over various possibilities. A pungent chemical smell has lately invaded the hallway of the complex, and I thought perhaps my neighbor has himself a meth lab. I believe now that it was a simple, run-of-the-mill case of domestic abuse, though there is no such thing as a simple, run-of-the-mill case of domestic abuse.
I’ve been reading a bit of Melville of late. Bartleby is a bit Kafka with undue gravitas, methinks. I do like the writing. Am fascinated by it.
I am enmeshed in a situation with a person with whom I wish to speak, to whom I have things to say, and yet silence persists. She is in the intermountain West, as am I, but we are quite a ways apart.
A man with an indistinct European accent called today, identifying himself as a representative of K2 Financial. I was nasty. I asked him if he liked being called by strangers when he was at home minding his own business and feeling a bit grim at how little his business amounted to. I changed course, offered a half-apology – “you’ve caught me right in the middle of something” – and hung up.
DeLillo’s Underworld bears revisiting. I can picture Klara Sax swimming.
Budweiser announces itself pluralistic right there before your eyes on the can: Beer, Bier, Cerveza, Birra, Biere. I am somewhat disappointed that the company couldn’t adhere to a nativist platform.
A selected montage of personal musical experiences: Ode to Joy on the recorder; Louie Louie on the guitar (bastardized); Come As You Are on the guitar (somewhat bastardized and wholly incomplete); everything under the sun on the drums, except complicated jazz and anything that is not relatively simple four-on-the-floor rock (which is to say: some shit on the drums that involves the hi-hat, kicker, and snare).
I would advise you to apprehend some wood and a pit to hold it in and start a fire. Sit by it for awhile, with a companion or three and maybe beer or no beer – no matter. Conversations are informed by fires. Simple as that, they are. Get to a space where this is possible. You are missing out.
This is how the first chapter of section I don’t know what ends (see 399-400) “They dissolved, as the saying goes, in laughter, they practically disappeared into their constituent elements, into atoms and molecules, a couple of girls in a gangster Packard, blown forward in time, and Klara stood on the roof sipping tepid wine and hearing people say, We need theater, and she knew she would tell this story to Miles and she also knew she could never again have a friend like Rochelle and mother like her mother for that matter and she looked across ledges and parapets to the old skyscraper with the massed midsection and the sunburst paneling, ten blocks north, and thought how wonderful it was, what an accidental marvel to come upon a memory floating at the level of a glazed mosaic high on a midtown tower – the old spoked sun that brings you luck.”
Wake up. There's a book going on here.
posted by am at
7:45 AM
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