Fuck. I've had a very hard day at work. I made it difficult on myself; more than it needed to be. Have I mentioned how much I prefer leisure over labor? I must have said something about it, after all these long years.
Two forlorn lovers....
Can we not, at least, be kind?
What's that from? Some long forgotten poem, maybe Keats.
I think it went like this:
Can we, at long last, two forlorn lovers, at least be kind to one another?
But, I can't find any online matches. It was in a black book of poetry I have boxed away in storage, a couple purplish crushed petals staining two pages, the binding giving way so that the book must be handled carefully, not by a brute.
Maybe I've completely misremembered it - perhaps it was in truly ancient English and not this middling period of the 19th century; maybe I've confused Keats and Yeats, who I believe was the nephew of a filthy Irish scrivener; who knows; the phrase was foreskinned lovers and at long last, and thick... ; even the concept of lovers was more of a primitive physical endearment than what we have access to now.
I once read that what they loved to share most in the 19th century weren't memes but syphilis.
What I adore about the persons of the past is how defenseless they all are/is. They just sit there and take it, those monsters. Few surer signs of guilt than silence.
Keeps me writing.
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I have insomnia, so I may as well write here for a little bit. I've tried everything else. I have ingested all the elixirs, huffed the pharmaceutical equivalent of nepenthe, awaited the gentle arrival of the shade, imbibed visions of the abyss and its surroundings. There is only nothing.
Yes, I struggled at work today. I openly argued in front of... what should I call them? they're not superiors, but neither are they subordinates, they are only colleagues in so much that we work together.
Jesus, colleagues it is.
What the fuck am I even doing here? I promised myself that if I ever used the word colleagues un-ironically I would scrape my nutsack off, and all of its future contents, with a plain white plastic spork. I feel like colleagues is a word that James Taylor probably liked to use in the 70s, and people would take him seriously.
It is for this that I must self-immolate. I linger in this abyss. There is only nothing.
Here we are, locked in this singular stalemate, looking down at both of them, unable to act, unsure which one to start with. Acts of self-barbarism are menacing. If I were a hero I would shave myself.
Twenty-seven years of nothin' but failures and promises that I couldn't keepOh Lord, I wasn't ready to goI'm never ready to go
His rather enviable baseball hat (never thought I'd write that, either) is a cooly psychedelic reference to Daniel Johnston. If you love me then learn to play Johnston's song, True Love Will Find You In The End. Well, love yourself, and learn the song. It's only four simple chords, but holds one of the strangest, and most oddly sincere melodies ever written.
Only listen to it once by anybody else, then learn and play the song from memory. Every time I go back and listen to the original, or any body else's version, I get further and further away from what I love about playing the song myself. That's the way it goes, sometimes, I guess.
I have a toothache that seems to be moving into my jaw. I'd be okay with it if I died peacefully in my sleep tonight. I've come to terms with feeling the same about you.
But, I can't find any online matches.
Funny phrase, that.
.
