I will have you know that some of the most awesome people in the world are really old.
I routinely indulge...YES INDULGE.. in bizarrely vague as well as strictly systematic intellectual quirpy, irony-laced, skeptically hopeful, insightful, introspective, profound, extremely profound conversations with OLD PEOPLE. OLD People are AWESOME. I ditched my best-friends one time, to stay at their place to have a long inconsequential conversation with the grandfather. He was really cool okay... Better than a trip to the DVD store and garlic mayo fries. I mean...Can we rename old people as Rhetoric Machines....or ...Anecdote Treasure Chests.... Normal kids dream about their dream fantasy foot-ball team or Awesome Super-Rock Band... I want to hold a workshop. With a panel. And on that panel I want Umberto Eco, Chomsky, Anwar Maqsood and Zia Mohyeddin...and say something like..... "Satire...Discuss"......... *SITS BACKS WATCHES THE MAGIC*
Buttttt I doooonnntttt waaaannnnaaaaa turrrnnnnn 20!
Danial keeps bugging me that I can't be a dinosaur.
Well fuck you guys!
It has already been established that on a blog, for me to definitively state that which I am is a lost cause.
But I realize that the non-egotistical side of my intellect, comes from a a very curious and blunt inner-child who broadens my perspective greeeeeeaaaaaaaatttttttlllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Dear inner-child, I know I'm 19 years too late..But do you need some fudd? Oh...*poke* Goddamnit ...The box said food-for-thought was enough....
We were doing free-writes.
A couple of friends and me.
They are younger than me.
Yes I get along with younger people.
But I felt sooo old. For the first time. I mean, there is a limit to how much you can ride the mentor band-wagon.
Fine so the idea was that you had to keep writing. Freely. And I was so slow on the uptake. And was so skeptical I was. Which I am usually not with poetry. But I was. It was this annoying persistent tick. A yearning for a system. I mean...FREE WRITE? What gives.
And there they were so full energy jumping around.
And I was searching awkwardly inside my head: I NEED a smoke, I wonder when my next Law class is, maybe I should wear socks!, If I rhyme this line I'll create the ABB structure which I do not want, what the hell?, Maybe holding a cat will inspire me!...
I mean....I put the Aneous in Spontaneous.....Or I used to...
And Contextual Literary Reference Plagiarism is something that bothers me!
I told them this.
I will elaborate on this later... It has become quite common... I will explain this new phenomenon... But see?????? Stuff like this bothers me now. The extent of my previous oldness was calling stuff that other people liked overrated (which I have healed from and would like some appreciation).
But seriously! It is as though I have been growing older without knowing it.
I do not age.... I procrastinate :(
I mean life is fun, there is so much I wanted to have done by now...
Hence the name change. Can't cling on to Adolescence anymore. But...
Bitch please, I will always be a dinosaur.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Hospital rooms are very comfortable places if you're one to exploit sickness to its fullest. He was. Let us imagine:
That the windows, which ordinarily bestow a pleasant view of expensive real-estate with green trees and a reasonably tended duck-infested pond, WERE TO SHUT WITH THE MANIFESTATION OF TONNES OF LAYERS OF IRON FORGED INTO AWESOME TOTALITARIAN BLOCKADES WHOSE VERY PRESENCE SETS AFLAME THE CURTAINS ONLY TO TESTIFY TO THE AWESOMNESS OF THAT WHICH HAS JUST SET IT AFLAME!
The seal on his windows by this sheet of collossal density appeared to have been constructed out of the carcass of a warship hull. The exact reason or unfortunate coincidence of this would dawn in a minute. Bolts intimidatingly tight prevented the passage water as well as air:
THOSE VENTS WHICH ON THE FIRST TWO DAYS MADE HIM UNEASY AND PARANOID ENOUGH TO SUSPECT THAT HE WAS BEING SPIED ON ARE NOW THE EXTENSION OF SOME INDUSTRIAL GRADE SUCTION PUMP.
And before the patient knew exactly what was transpiring, the air was sucked out his room. Completely. The grandeur of the flaming curtains lessened as the lack of oxygen extinguished them. They swished quite languidly, perhaps suspending their own disbelief: Hospitals usually use blinds.
What vaccuum could be conjured in such apocalyptic fashion being accepted for what it is, without question? The desire to breathe is a very motivating in dispelling curiosity it seems. The patient wasted no time in trying his door. It was open.
A long corridor, cinematically tainted a grim blue with a shimmering light?
We'll see how perceptive a pseudo-intellectual is when you cut his air off.