I've been neglecting you my love! & I've been in the mood to blog but just haven't been on the computer. & just thought I should share the fact that reading 'Nausea' while listening to Pearl and the puppets is very entertaining cause Satre makes you want to kill yourself and Pearl and the puppets makes you feel like rainbows, singing hamsters and sunshine, and the contradiction is pretty damn glorious.
I can't explain my tendency to be drawn to passages like the following:
"What if something were to happen? What if something suddenly started throbbing? Then they would notice it was there and they'd think their hearts were going to burst. Then what good would their dykes, bulwarks, power houses, furnaces and pile drivers be to them? It can happen any time, perhaps right now: the omens are present. For example, the father of a family might go out for a walk, and, across the street, he'll see something like a red rag, blown towards him by the wind. And when the rag has gotten close to him he'll see that it is a side of rotten meat, grimy with dust, dragging itself along by crawling, skipping, a piece of writhing flesh rolling in the gutter, spasmodically shooting out spurts of blood. Or a mother might look at her child's cheek and ask him: "What's that, a pimple?" and see the flesh puff out a little, split, open, and at the bottom of the split an eye, a laughing eye might appear. Or they might feel things gently brushing against their bodies, like the caresses of reeds to swimmers in a river. And they will realize that their clothing has become living things. And someone else might feel something scratching in his mouth. He goes to the mirror, opens his mouth: and his tongue is an enormous, live centipede, rubbing its legs together and scraping his palate. He'd like to spit it out, but the centipede is a part of him and he will have to tear it out with his own hands. And a crowd of things will appear for which people will have to find new names, stone eye, great three cornered arm, toe crutch, spider jaw. And someone might be sleeping in his comfortable bed, in his quiet, warm room, and wake up naked on a bluish earth, in a forest of rustling birch trees, rising red and white towards the sky like the smokestacks of Jouxtebouville, with big bumps half way out of the ground, hairy and bulbous like onions. And birds will fly around these birch trees and pick at them with their beaks and make them bleed. Sperm will flow slowly, gently, from these wounds, sperm mixed with blood, warm and glassy with little bubbles."
It's so disgustingly/horrifically satisfying.
WHY IS EVERYONE SO SAD? THE CURE IS TO BUY A RAINBOW PROJECTING LIGHT! Or go eat tubs of apple crumble yoghurt outside pitt st mall while peter pick strums on that magnificent guitar, but be warned, don't sit under those dodgy, dodgy trees. Spiders will fall onto the pages of your book and appear to be text that has gained the ability to move.
Sho Shkairi.
Sho Shkairi.
