Ah, here we are. Two in the morning, and a new world awaits me tomorrow. Or not, as may be the case. 2005 seems to promise a dull repetition of the end of 2004, as far as I can see. The brief respite that was Christmas and New Years must now give way before the dull, dreary routine of work. Like the faith of a child in magic, it can only last so long in the desolate, despairing eyes of the real world. Woe! A tale of misery ensues. Work, work, work. Epicurus had it right. Just get all your friends together, move into a big house, grow turnips and sit around talking and having sex. Man, what a life. Instead: mortgage broker, extrordinaire! Me, at the telephone, chatting attentively with idiots. Me, at the computer, punching up tax information and running credit reports. Me, at the desk, nodding attentively as my boss drones on about stuff. Me, at the window, watching the world go by! Me! At work! Nullified!
Ah, drama. This is the winter of my discontent alright. A little indian summer to whet the appetite, and then back to winter. Reverse! Nein! No progress here! Back, back into the desolate wastes of permafrost and 1003 applications! Back to marketing and blehness!
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Ah, my old blog, lost friend of antient (what does that mean, antient?) times. I assume it's just a fancy way of spelling ancient, but I shall not find out. Ignorance, hie to me! Sitting in my room at 4pm, doors kicked open, besocked and berobed, hair still crapped from clubbing last night and compounded by sleep, feeling stale, foetid, jaded and sophis-ticated. I think I shall have a beer, and then lie on the floor. What a pleasure, to pass the day in an old robe, a beer in hand, good music playing (Beta Band) and not a care in the world. At least, not now, not yet. Tomorrow, bring it, I shall whine and whinge with the best of them. Ha! Such a whiner shall I be that never there havebe a whiner likeme. What is a home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Absolute shee-it. The glamor in self waste. Sometimes I wish I had a full body suit that would allow me to crawl through all the dark, creepy places of the world without fear of contamination. To slowly wriggle through the rooted claustrophobias of brambled bushes, to wallow and swim through dank canals, to loll about in it all.
My beer, where art though? Hie to me! Hie hie hie. Hehehe. Hello! If you could pick a book as an enemy, which would it be? Up until recently I would have picked Ulysses. Blasted thing. So smug and brilliant and obtuse and esoteric and dense. But now, having courted it slowly through the amber hued days of Christmas, reading it on the toilet and lying on the couch by the X-mas tree and sprawled out in bed and in the dying afternoon light outside on the porch, I've begun to come to terms with it, to enjoy its challenge. No longer do I resent Joyce, but instead feel a curious approval of his mastery over the language. James Joyce: not half bad! Tends to lose me at times, especially when Poldybloom is wandering around wondering about stuff too much. Stephen is fascinating - and tonight's main event, ladies and gentleman, for your reading pleasure: Stephen Dedalus versus Hamlet, Prince of Denmark! Nice matchup, that. Hamlet would win. Joyce curbed Stephen too much. Agenbite of inwit! Inward turning, Stephen disappears whereas Hamlet unleashes in Act 5! Loosen your drawstrings, men, and: unleash! Have at thee, Laertes, and you too, Kingy fellow, and drink up, mum! Remember me to Shakespeare, Horatio. Good lad. Now for a kip.
Old friends: David Gemmel's books. Aye, and begorrah. The kind of friends you'd take to a pub and have a few drinks with, no real excitement but good times, comfortable, fun. Early night back, not too drunk. So many. A library, well read, is a collection of personalities. Books bloom into Leoldystyle flowers. What does that mean? I don't know. Ha! Have at thee, Joyceypoos.
Something's missing. Ah, yes. Right, right. That beer. I have two left, in the fridge. Aureate shafts of ambrosia, contained within slender flutes of hollow crystal spires. I don't do the epic style too well. Or is that just the crappy style? Mr Joyce, care to opine? What? Agenbite of Potted Peat? Sorry, sit down sir. How dare you sir! Sit down, sir! Stately Plump Buck Mulligan. SPMB.
The sky grows dim. Dismal. That chalky white that I have grown so fond of. Can air be pellucid? The aphotic depths of the ocean are hardly so. Aphotic. Disphotic. Unphotic. The agenwit of inbite.
Hello blogos. It's been awhile, but I may be back.
My beer, where art though? Hie to me! Hie hie hie. Hehehe. Hello! If you could pick a book as an enemy, which would it be? Up until recently I would have picked Ulysses. Blasted thing. So smug and brilliant and obtuse and esoteric and dense. But now, having courted it slowly through the amber hued days of Christmas, reading it on the toilet and lying on the couch by the X-mas tree and sprawled out in bed and in the dying afternoon light outside on the porch, I've begun to come to terms with it, to enjoy its challenge. No longer do I resent Joyce, but instead feel a curious approval of his mastery over the language. James Joyce: not half bad! Tends to lose me at times, especially when Poldybloom is wandering around wondering about stuff too much. Stephen is fascinating - and tonight's main event, ladies and gentleman, for your reading pleasure: Stephen Dedalus versus Hamlet, Prince of Denmark! Nice matchup, that. Hamlet would win. Joyce curbed Stephen too much. Agenbite of inwit! Inward turning, Stephen disappears whereas Hamlet unleashes in Act 5! Loosen your drawstrings, men, and: unleash! Have at thee, Laertes, and you too, Kingy fellow, and drink up, mum! Remember me to Shakespeare, Horatio. Good lad. Now for a kip.
Old friends: David Gemmel's books. Aye, and begorrah. The kind of friends you'd take to a pub and have a few drinks with, no real excitement but good times, comfortable, fun. Early night back, not too drunk. So many. A library, well read, is a collection of personalities. Books bloom into Leoldystyle flowers. What does that mean? I don't know. Ha! Have at thee, Joyceypoos.
Something's missing. Ah, yes. Right, right. That beer. I have two left, in the fridge. Aureate shafts of ambrosia, contained within slender flutes of hollow crystal spires. I don't do the epic style too well. Or is that just the crappy style? Mr Joyce, care to opine? What? Agenbite of Potted Peat? Sorry, sit down sir. How dare you sir! Sit down, sir! Stately Plump Buck Mulligan. SPMB.
The sky grows dim. Dismal. That chalky white that I have grown so fond of. Can air be pellucid? The aphotic depths of the ocean are hardly so. Aphotic. Disphotic. Unphotic. The agenwit of inbite.
Hello blogos. It's been awhile, but I may be back.
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