Sooner or later the grand finale comes, except it's not so grand. At times I wish I could churn out some desperate prose characterized by a gritty realistic fervour, you know like an arsehole tossing out gags with every fart, such that the funny sounds have a distinct smell of their own.
Or am I not making sense?
That is to say, why must I cry at every juncture these days? What the effing fuck does that even mean? *weep weep* *sob sob* *sniff* *howl howl* (not *howl howl howl* just *howl howl* which takes away that shakespeherian touch, but ah well...)
I am really disgusted with myself. Reading Elizabeth Gaskell's Ruth, maudlin Victorian sentimentality but yes powerful, watching the cruel American parable (or rather Afro-American parable) Madagascar 2, thinking about love and the complementary process(or is it far more complex, only I am too stupid to comprehend it?) called Jazz.
I have been reading Existential philosophy/literature/ associated/ ideas like tragedy of late. Is that it? Or has it always been like this? Or are we all like this? Only I am idiotic enough to succumb to this wretched temptation?
This glorious sensation below the skin... my nerves writhe and wriggle waiting to erupt, a physical epiphany of perverse pain mingled pleasure, the red and white, the red and black, the red and scarlet...the individual within and against, the individual and his cat, the individual as cat, the cat without the grin metamorphosing into a grin without the cat!
It is, as Henry James so pointedly said, an awkward age. Awkward. Age. It's been an age and it has been awkward, for the disenchantment co-exists with every minute of enchantment, and my bowels never work well and I always feel like potty, and I do love despite the awkwardness, gauche ahona, ahona gateaux, yum!yum! (What was I saying again?)
I am not sure, but with every passing day I am arriving at a conclusion. It is impossible to say what exactly I mean. But that has happened a century before. So what's new?
My hair smells lovely today.