(Jan. 5. 05)
Here I find myself again awakened into this, the best of all possible worlds. It is, as it is, still yet too dark to determine the minion of the sky; so that description need well be left on the back burner, have you. I am off to the tribunal this morning at eight-fifteen sharpest, so I was asked and told to be ready and prepared for. My nose, those apertures across from one another, is loosely clotted with snotgreenseaness. These skillet-like drippings, as best they are described, are bothersome and wetting. I do not appreciate their being where and why they are, present as they are, enough said on this matter as timeliness tonsures any further descriptions. Sadly enough, it is yet too early to masturbate. I will, time, as it is, need wait for a more propitious moment to exhibit self-mastery. My damnable glasses best be ready for pick up today, as another day of my eyes crossing in on each other is ocularly unconscionable.
Clenched, pinching my nose, I have on a newly ground pair of oculars. The fit, on the bridge-bone, is quite satisfactory. These glasses, as they are, will change the entire ocular field of representation that I find myself bound to at any given moment. False-representations, a once all to common occurrence in my perceptual glom, are now of little to middling concern for one of such occlusion. I have, perhaps mistakenly, used the term’s ocular and occlusion twice in the same paragraph. Such misusage must be de-larded of any further exploitation if I am to be taken at all seriously. Sadly enough, it is still too early for masturbation, as it is not yet ten o’clock in the evening, the most propitious time for oedipal occlusion. All things taken into consideration, in this the best of all possible worlds, it is only proper to delay this much-anticipated pleasuring until at least a half past ten. As Beckett so eloquently wrote, I cannot wait, I must wait.
I am quite tired, perhaps exhausted. Thursday, being today, I have volunteered my time with the Red Cross Tsunami relief thingamajig here in my hometown of Ottawa where no such catastrophes will ever occur. I am to be there at eight-thirty sharp, as the elevator, designed by Otis, does not start ferrying and ascending people until that time. Not being particularly fond of elevators, or anything that requires the suspension of volition, I may choose to take the stairwell way up to the third floor where the volunteering station, a table, so I have been told, is situated. I have laundered an assortment of plain selfsame articles of clothing, three pairs of denim jeans and two and half pairs of white socks, and my bath towel, which is red and Ikean. Having smoked far too many Gauloises today I may find my breathing labored and railing, making the stairwell idea not such a good one. If need be, I will put what little faith I have in Otis and ascend by cable and hydraulic conveyance. The son of the Ophthalmologist who scripted my eye sightlessness gave me my choice of glasses case, of which I chose a fake silver one, designed and cooped by Jean Paul Gaultter, a haberdasher with an interest in ocular protection I gather. My frames, purchased at a cost of forty-nine cents from a thrift store, may, in fact, be real genuine tortoise shell; if this is so, then I made a shrewd and thrifty purchase, all things considered. My father and dear mother would be most proud of me, as I gather from childhood experiences of their own shrewd thriftiness. The sky is as black as a well digger’s ass, or as cold, I too often get the two mixed up, sad as that may be. I must sleep, I cannot sleep, I must go on.
(Jan. 6. 05)
This morning is not the first morning of the rest of my life, but rather another in a contiguous repetition that can be quite tiresome at best. The sky is without description; but will be assigned one when such praise seems appropriate and laudable. My new glasses have broken, a mere twenty-nine and a half-hours after purchase with money I could ill afford to part with to begin with, all such beginnings, quite frankly, not worth the fucking bother to start with. A screw came loose and fell willy-nilly to the horrid carpeting that ass-fucks the living room floor. Being one room, for substandard living, one would think that finding the missing screw-attachment would be quite lassie faire. Such, as would have it, is not the case at all. Its miniscule (ness) makes it next to impossible to locate, even with palming and careful articulations of my hands and fingers. Sometime during the day tomorrow, time permitting, I will take them to the oculist, or his son, or whoever is available at the moment, and issue a complaint. If they are not repaired to my satisfaction immediately, I will encourage an embargo on their store, and if time allows, a most pernicious salvo that will have them shitting in their drawers, so to speak. This type of dehumanizing incompetence, this I can assure you, I will certainly not endure. As a result of this inconvenience Beckett can go fuck himself. I have no time for such enuresis tomfoolery at the moment, none whatsoever. Fucking eye-sightlessness has been more than I bargained for.
(This is a letter I wrote that was deemed unpublishable by the Citizen’s intelligentsia)
I have but one contentious issue to raise concerning same-sex legislation. A child in the Sudan too weakened from starvation to wipe the flies from his or her face, ranks higher in the hierarchy of human rights issues than same-sex marriage. To use the term ‘human rights’ in such a manner shows an abhorrent flaw in our capacity for empathetic understanding. Having said this, I agree that the legislation should be passed, however, perhaps in the future we should look further than our own self-interests and economic gain if such issues should be raised again. We so often take for granted the privileges and rights we are so fortunate to have in a country such as Canada, all the while exhibiting a callous disregard for any life other than our own. We certainly need to begin thinking on a global level and start putting our energies and ethical tenacity into more pressing issues, such as those that rob a child not only of a future, but of life itself.
Perhaps it was considered too perishing to be given a readership. No longer will I submit letters to ‘the letters to the editor’ of this foolish broad sheet. They, too, can go fuck themselves. Often times it is such indelicacies that need most to be heard; and when they are denied a voice or a reader, we are all robbed of the opportunity to think and form opinions and ideas for ourselves. That, so it is, is fascist totalitarianism at its vilest. I suppose, as I do, that I still have sufficient time to smoke many more Gauloises before the night thieves me of wakefulness, scolding me into fitful dreams. I too, am subject to these awful jimmylegs that underscore a restful undemanding sleep. Such, I suppose, is the insomniac’s laboring indifference to the tractable simplicities of it all, in this, the best of all possible worlds. The only one we have at our disposal, sad and indifferent as it may be.
(Jan. 7. 05)
There is a creeping sun climbing hand over hand over the government buildings that surround and attest to the stupidity of my neighborhood. When it has full-end ascended over and atop of these monstrosities of democratic process, my day will begin. Energetic Minds and Retorts is situated in the buildings abutting my street, or more so, at the foot or headmost eastern up sloping.
The oculist has repaired my glasses to my satisfaction. His son, the oculist’s son, re-screwed, and in the process, I would imagine, tightened the enscrewments to a most unmovable tension. He suggested that when removing my glasses, which must be done from time to time, I should thumb and finger both arms concurrently, thus avoiding a lopsided mangling of the screwed area where the arm meets with the ocular lens, as would have it. This I will try my best to do, as a reoccurrence of last night’s failure is unacceptable, certainly. Now that I am both sighting and hearing impaired, it is imperative that I thoroughly reassess my perceptual veridicality; as both, without a doubt, need orthopedic assistance, this I am most certain of, if nothing more. As one frames a house, erecting with hammer and nails scaffolding that concurs and allies with the foundation, I will need to realign, so it is, the ocular with the audio, thus assuring a meeting and cooperation between the three. The unnecessary tension that would occur between this triptych and most fascist individualism if this is not realized and implemented, would be quite incapacitating, to put in blithely.
There is, so I have discovered, a nettling in my hair; a most unwelcome bramble that is no less inhospitable than any other selfsame infestation. It could very well be, perhaps, a colossal rooting, as would have it, one, or many, that will spell the hirsute end of me, salon-wise, that is. Closing in on forty-seven years of age, as I am, I still wear, if one can, my hair long and uncut, as an effigy to my father and the next door neighbor. Having written this, perhaps a nettling is not such a horrific thing in comparison to the above barbaric obscenity. I tend, or am prone, to fucking up, or around, with sentence structure, or syntax, making the reading of what I write most insufferable, so I would imagine. It is eight minutes before midnight and having already masturbated once today, perhaps some much-needed sleep is in order. This I will do with less pleasure than with what proceeded it, sadly enough.
I have but one contentious issue to raise concerning same-sex legislation. A child in the Sudan too weakened from starvation to wipe the flies from his or her face, ranks higher in the hierarchy of human rights issues than same-sex marriage. To use the term ‘human rights’ in such a manner shows an abhorrent flaw in our capacity for empathetic understanding. Having said this, I agree that the legislation should be passed, however, perhaps in the future we should look further than our own self-interests and economic gain if such issues should be raised again. We so often take for granted the privileges and rights we are so fortunate to have in a country such as Canada, all the while exhibiting a callous disregard for any life other than our own. We certainly need to begin thinking on a global level and start putting our energies and ethical tenacity into more pressing issues, such as those that rob a child not only of a future, but of life itself.
Perhaps it was considered too perishing to be given a readership. No longer will I submit letters to ‘the letters to the editor’ of this foolish broad sheet. They, too, can go fuck themselves. Often times it is such indelicacies that need most to be heard; and when they are denied a voice or a reader, we are all robbed of the opportunity to think and form opinions and ideas for ourselves. That, so it is, is fascist totalitarianism at its vilest. I suppose, as I do, that I still have sufficient time to smoke many more Gauloises before the night thieves me of wakefulness, scolding me into fitful dreams. I too, am subject to these awful jimmylegs that underscore a restful undemanding sleep. Such, I suppose, is the insomniac’s laboring indifference to the tractable simplicities of it all, in this, the best of all possible worlds. The only one we have at our disposal, sad and indifferent as it may be.
(Jan. 7. 05)
There is a creeping sun climbing hand over hand over the government buildings that surround and attest to the stupidity of my neighborhood. When it has full-end ascended over and atop of these monstrosities of democratic process, my day will begin. Energetic Minds and Retorts is situated in the buildings abutting my street, or more so, at the foot or headmost eastern up sloping.
The oculist has repaired my glasses to my satisfaction. His son, the oculist’s son, re-screwed, and in the process, I would imagine, tightened the enscrewments to a most unmovable tension. He suggested that when removing my glasses, which must be done from time to time, I should thumb and finger both arms concurrently, thus avoiding a lopsided mangling of the screwed area where the arm meets with the ocular lens, as would have it. This I will try my best to do, as a reoccurrence of last night’s failure is unacceptable, certainly. Now that I am both sighting and hearing impaired, it is imperative that I thoroughly reassess my perceptual veridicality; as both, without a doubt, need orthopedic assistance, this I am most certain of, if nothing more. As one frames a house, erecting with hammer and nails scaffolding that concurs and allies with the foundation, I will need to realign, so it is, the ocular with the audio, thus assuring a meeting and cooperation between the three. The unnecessary tension that would occur between this triptych and most fascist individualism if this is not realized and implemented, would be quite incapacitating, to put in blithely.
There is, so I have discovered, a nettling in my hair; a most unwelcome bramble that is no less inhospitable than any other selfsame infestation. It could very well be, perhaps, a colossal rooting, as would have it, one, or many, that will spell the hirsute end of me, salon-wise, that is. Closing in on forty-seven years of age, as I am, I still wear, if one can, my hair long and uncut, as an effigy to my father and the next door neighbor. Having written this, perhaps a nettling is not such a horrific thing in comparison to the above barbaric obscenity. I tend, or am prone, to fucking up, or around, with sentence structure, or syntax, making the reading of what I write most insufferable, so I would imagine. It is eight minutes before midnight and having already masturbated once today, perhaps some much-needed sleep is in order. This I will do with less pleasure than with what proceeded it, sadly enough.
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