The Isle of Marm
One of many awkward me-affiliated places.
Time-Dependent SemiPublic Memory Bank,
Super Secret Dumping/Proving Ground,
Displaced Miscellany Collection,
3 Hours in the Future (EST)
One of many awkward me-affiliated places.
Time-Dependent SemiPublic Memory Bank,
Super Secret Dumping/Proving Ground,
Displaced Miscellany Collection,
3 Hours in the Future (EST)
“I am totally certain it did not look like that.”
”Totally certain?”
“Hmm. Hmm.”Percentage of any given day spent assuring self that memories are not just fantastic confabulations: 20% (±10%)
(Flying toward an underwhelming question.)
“That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
And that has made all the difference.
—Eliot Frost
There’s a nearly 2 year old note on my whiteboard that says “Prufork.”
I wish I didn’t turn so many things into acronyms because there is precious little clear clearly-related context to go on in terms of to what it could have been in reference. I don’t think it was a plan for poetic mash-ups.
There are many sentences on the wikipedia page for Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo that I like. I also think the simplified parse tree of that sentence is on the borderline of incorrect; in as much as while “Buffalo” is a proper noun, it is being used adjectivally: the capital letter is just a red herring. I should have herring for dinner. I shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee. And I want to blame the coffee for this sinking feeling, but I know that’s not it. That is not it at all.
“I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker…and in short, I was afraid.”
“Simplify your complicated linguistic constructs.”
That is the primary note I get. From La in 1997, from ERW in 2011.
Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn’t nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamor of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand.
—Aldous Huxley, Birthday boy.
Sometimes Screenwriter, T.S. Eliot’s buddy, interesting guy.
I’d like to think that sometime between Eliot emigrating to the UK and Huxley immigrating to the US, the 2 sat down and watched some smuggled in American movies movies (TS loved the Marx Brothers) and AL browbeat TS for a bit for leaving the states. Maybe they picked on each others’ accents.
Above: LV, by Thebes*, below the wall.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.(—From the Fire Sermon)
*On the road to the other Thebes. Where we met thieves. And it felt like home.
This episode vaulted the podcast to Superbowl status, in as much as the first couple minutes post-download involved scanning through the audio listening for the commercial.
Part V: April’s Cruelty Abates
…Somewhere between giving and compassion:
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
I almost forgot, but could not forget. The Thunder* said: Ho!
*=cats
Part IV: The Cruelty of April Presents an Object Lesson.
Ladies and Gentlemen: the flying brick.
I might’ve needed the ridiculousness today to quell my unease about next month’s trial by fire, which I should be preparing for now anyhow. After the 3rd technological failure, when I decided to work the whiteboard like it was my plan? Ohman. It was right out of Space Cowboys. Touchdown: Clutch performance. A rough but great talk. Skill is what you must hold on to as everything else is real time failing.
I’m not drowning yet.
Part III: The Ides of April is the Cruelest Part of the Month
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
‘Well, now that’s done; and I’m glad it’s over.’
Part II: April remains cruel.
What shall we ever do?
(I might say it’ll be alright, but you might never be the same.)
…good night, good night.
Fear death by water. Especially if you find yourself swimming in hookers.
T-40 on escape from Cape Fear. Still no sign of De Niro. Don’t wanna be Judgy McJudgerson, but saw maybe 3 prostitutes between the car and gate. Or maybe that is just how kids today dress.
Bibliotecadventures #24: UCB: East Asian Library
Before it moved North to a fancy new building and got a name change, the EAL was fairly scattered. Also, some sections were in shady places that looked like shady Chinese restaurants. I had no business going in, but I was wandering with a camera looking for stock-shots for an article and stumbled upon part of the collection guarded by the scary looking lions. The place was oddly claustrophobia inducing. Also present: card catalogs, which appeared to be the primary way to look things up in there as late as 4 years ago, before the great Asian consolidation of ‘aught Seven.
Back then, 1NiB would not have been library appropriate as Bangkok would fall under the purview of the SouthEast Asian collection, elsewhere. We will not discuss my involvement with Muay Thai, until maybe #12, among the libraries being put off as primary associations are tawdry stories about interactions with dudes. Apropos of nothing, Murray Head is a hilarious name. I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine.
1NiB not only has delightful lyrics but serves as an audio reminder: I may have, at an awkward point in life, been a chess club groupie. In fact, while I don’t particularly enjoy playing it, it’s possible that every dude with whom I have ever gone out more than once has been an aficionado of the game (though there are some for whom I do not have the data). Certainly that is a weird correlation and not a causation (as all of the dudes were after the groupie era). And it seldom worked out: perhaps one can be too careful with one’s company.
Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.
![When I wear my lab goggles as a hat, I report numbers without judgment.
It’s so elegant/So intelligent/”What shall I do now? What shall I do?”…a slow co-author is a dangerous thing.
[20110306: Updated because of new data points. [link fixed] Previous capture.]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lhi0oge7EJ1qauqmuo1_r1_1280.jpg)
When I wear my lab goggles as a hat, I report numbers without judgment.
It’s so elegant/So intelligent/”What shall I do now? What shall I do?”
…a slow co-author is a dangerous thing.
[20110306: Updated because of new data points. [link fixed] Previous capture.]
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
You know what would be great? Eliot reading Seuss (aka Geisel). But Prufrock will do. For what may be an endless day of editing and rewriting murder and creation, Prufrock will do.
