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I have all these context based jokes that I have no outlet for because I've got nothing going on. Like, for example, the phrase "Jesus, take the wheel." I hesitate to bring it up because, even now, I see the immense potential that could be released with a timely, pithy application of this phrase. But, having nothing to apply it to, it will, as do most things, recede into the old soil at the back of my head. If it is lost there, I will not mind. Amidst the piles of nothing, the brain often thinks to itself that all you have, from day to day, are the things you do and dreams. Sometimes you are not sure which is which. You can't remember where you put it. The alarm is constantly going off, and it might be a bird. You vomit in the street and later, at the lake house, find some on your pants.
I worry that one particular love, met or unmet, can permanently alter the course of your personality. There's no going back over a life. If you--and by you I mean I, as usual--age without it, then you necessarily become a person who has done so. You did not meet him in the smoothness of your youth, and then you can't. You are constantly missing the possibility of shared time. However, what little of myself I have given to those I have met has accomplished little. The strange litany of men I know has not convinced me of very much, either positive or negative. One, a fish-shaped man, confused and mute. Another whose love proved ultimately weaker than his pride. Earlier, a man-shaped fish, who deserved and understood me as much as a single fish does the entirety of the ocean. There was the adolescent lion I intentionally misunderstood until he moved away, and also the more fully-grown animal, lambent in his drunkeness, who I still occasionally run into at night, in the city. And the rest, or maybe there's only one other--there's so much about this short range, heart-based sorcery that I let escape me.
Anyway, I try to be solicitous in my relationships, continue to live this life about I forget what it's about. When I am not occupied having lengthy conversations with myself at work, Bill keeps me sane through the sheer force of his presence. He is the sort of man that, when his family bought a set of cookies each decorated with a different member the Obama family, was given the one with the presidential dog. At lunch, he wondered aloud what it said about him that he got that one. I replied that it means he has the best sense of humor. He said he tries to. How much is it possible to try to have something, rather than just to be the instrument of the expression of your fevers? Bill lacks pretense on every level; what he is and what he tries to be are the same thing. However, he rarely calls anything in the shop by its right name. Instead, there is an untrackable list of diminuitives and nicknames for the things we use every day; they are blankies, not blankets. There is the flatbar which, for no discernible reason, is named Wang Chung; the ratchet called Big Head Todd. I can no more explain the impulse behind this habit than I can explain my own fascination with reversing the order of words in short phrases. What thinks you make that? This is so heavy fucking.
When I am not at work, I feel like the sun itself, if the sun produced sound instead of light. Sometimes those that you know will leave you, they will go farther away. They will remind you of the unbridgeable distance, and you will not always know why.
I worry that one particular love, met or unmet, can permanently alter the course of your personality. There's no going back over a life. If you--and by you I mean I, as usual--age without it, then you necessarily become a person who has done so. You did not meet him in the smoothness of your youth, and then you can't. You are constantly missing the possibility of shared time. However, what little of myself I have given to those I have met has accomplished little. The strange litany of men I know has not convinced me of very much, either positive or negative. One, a fish-shaped man, confused and mute. Another whose love proved ultimately weaker than his pride. Earlier, a man-shaped fish, who deserved and understood me as much as a single fish does the entirety of the ocean. There was the adolescent lion I intentionally misunderstood until he moved away, and also the more fully-grown animal, lambent in his drunkeness, who I still occasionally run into at night, in the city. And the rest, or maybe there's only one other--there's so much about this short range, heart-based sorcery that I let escape me.
Anyway, I try to be solicitous in my relationships, continue to live this life about I forget what it's about. When I am not occupied having lengthy conversations with myself at work, Bill keeps me sane through the sheer force of his presence. He is the sort of man that, when his family bought a set of cookies each decorated with a different member the Obama family, was given the one with the presidential dog. At lunch, he wondered aloud what it said about him that he got that one. I replied that it means he has the best sense of humor. He said he tries to. How much is it possible to try to have something, rather than just to be the instrument of the expression of your fevers? Bill lacks pretense on every level; what he is and what he tries to be are the same thing. However, he rarely calls anything in the shop by its right name. Instead, there is an untrackable list of diminuitives and nicknames for the things we use every day; they are blankies, not blankets. There is the flatbar which, for no discernible reason, is named Wang Chung; the ratchet called Big Head Todd. I can no more explain the impulse behind this habit than I can explain my own fascination with reversing the order of words in short phrases. What thinks you make that? This is so heavy fucking.
When I am not at work, I feel like the sun itself, if the sun produced sound instead of light. Sometimes those that you know will leave you, they will go farther away. They will remind you of the unbridgeable distance, and you will not always know why.
