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"When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them--that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better." --The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
And that's just in the first 2 pages. Mark Twain is a G.
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I feel like if people actually read this I would feel more comfortable using this space as it was intended by its creators--that intention being, of course, to act as the primary medium for the bloated, depressing diatribes of the inarticulate masses. Because, when it comes to bloated and depressing diatribes, I'm a fucking dynamo. As is, if I talk at length about things that I'm doing, or have done, or will be doing, there's some kind of narcissistic, self-conscious dimension that really irks me. And I realize that me saying this must be infuriatingly narcissistic for anyone who reads this. Which, obviously, is not a real problem. Anyway, quick rundown of the past few weeks:
Mexico = 7 days, 5+ books. No, I'm serious. Yes, seriously, god dammit. Yes, I know I was in Mexico. Yeah, I know. Shut up.
-----16 hours in San Francisco-----
Montana for 4 days. The complete antithesis of Mexico for some reason. I don't really care to expand, for the reasons stated in the opening monologue, but suffice to say it was pretty fucking awesome. And now I'm back.
And if anyone ever reads this, please, speak up. I'd love an excuse to write 3,000 words every other day about this stuff.
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Saturday, June 18th, 2005
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Things tend to slow down when I go home. I think that this problem has been exacerbated by Peter's unfortunate condition (he had surgery yesterday, finally; it took 8 1/2 hours. That is a long fucking time). I spend my days perusing various websites and reading intermittently, and only every once in a while do I make it out to hang out with Walter or Zach or Jaime or whoever. It's a pathetic existence. My human contact is limited, for the most part, to my instant messages and my phone conversations in which I discuss with Walter/Zach/Jaime whether they want to go see Peter. There is no real redeeming qualities to what I'm doing right now. I'm not making money, I'm not giving anything back to society (besides to the perverts who might steal the occasional glance into my home and catch sight of my rippling pectorals and herculean biceps), and as of right now all I'm doing is eating and sleeping. I'm too lazy to walk across the room and get the remote to watch TV or a movie. To show you exactly what I mean, here is the schedule of my typical day:
1) Sometime between 1 and 3 pm, maybe (there's no need to check a clock--it's not like I have anywhere to be): Wake up
2) Wake up - about 4 pm: Move slowly through the house and let my muscles get a sense for their surroundings, which are unfamiliar as I spend the majority of my time in bed. During this time I may or may not be troubled enough to eat breakfast/late lunch/early dinner
3) 4 pm - 5 pm: If I haven't eaten yet, I will probably eat during this time. If I have eaten already, this time is reserved for personal reflection. In other words, either reading or napping.
4) 5pm - 10 pm: go through the daily and futile struggle of trying to get someone to pay attention to me. I will use this time to call people and make it seem like I would be interested in hanging out, which I sometimes genuinely am. By the end of this time I will usually still be half naked.
5) 10 pm - 3 am: Either A) I am out of the house, hanging out and trying not to get peer pressured so that I can drive home or B) I have managed to achieve nothing, and am either reading or watching TV.
6) Sometime between 3 am and 6 am: Go to bed.
I live a horrible, horrible life that accomplishes nothing. And it is awesome.
I saw the new Batman yesterday, and it was totally awesome. It had everything a good action movie needs: hot girl; a bad guy who at one time was an evil genius but who, by the end of the movie, has descended completely into the throes of insanity; a plot that is so inconceivably ludicrous that it stops mattering by the halfway point of the movie; Morgan Freeman somehow involved; a heavy dose of pwnage administered by the protagonist.
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It's not often that you get to read a book as unpretentious as The World According to Garp.
The book manages to deal intelligently with a lot of important concepts without belittling them and without making itself too baroque; while it didn't seem to me like there was much to read in between the lines, the analysis that comes through of the topics Irving discusses (with lust, especially) gives a lot to think about without being preachy. I like that.
The characters were awesome. Garp is thoughtful and compassionate while at the same time being dominated by his passions, and he is thus profoundly human and easy to relate to despite his odd personal history. The supporting characters are all excellent, as well, and though we obviously never get the in depth treatment of their personalities to the same extent that we do with Garp, there are no characters with any import to the plot who seem one-dimensional.
My favorite part about reading The World According to Garp was that it felt like I was reading a story without an agenda; the plot takes precedence over the symbols and morals Irving provides, a change from a lot of the books I've been reading lately.
In short, Garp owns, and I recommend it highly. I may have more to add about it later, after it sinks in a little more.
Book on deck: Even Cowgirls Get The Blues by Tom Robbins (currently on page 56)
Book in the hole: Of Mice And Men by John Steinbeck
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Wednesday, June 15th, 2005
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When I was a little boy I got lost at a museum. I had been next to my mother, lurching forward with the crowd without leaving her side, examining the ancient stonework of some ancient asian dynasty. I was unconcerned with where and from whence the art had come; I was more concerned (as I imagine most boys at that tender age are) with keeping track of my mother. Even still, I had become seduced by the carvings around me.
In the center of the modestly sized and thus overcrowded showroom were the statues that everyone had come to see; surrounded by the obligatory, though ineffective, guardrail, there stood a dozen statues of ancient warriors, complete with long, imposing spears, standing alert and ready to serve their emperor. These statues were vaguely frightening, but I felt that as long as my mother stood close by, they were stuck eternally in their present, stoic state. What compelled me about the statues was that they felt magical, as though they, like gargoyles, could somehow burst from their entrapping facades and turn their fearsome loyalty to their beloved leader, along with their spears, on me.
Suddenly fearful, I grasped for my mother's hand and squished myself tightly against her leg. I looked up, hoping to reassure myself further in her comforting eyes, but was met only with the bemused smile of a strange woman; my mother had disappeared!
Panic overcame me; chief among my worries were that she had been taken hostage by the barbarous stone men. I believed momentarily that she had become a plunder; taken by these brutal men, she was the spoils of their terrible war.
I didn't dare release the hand of this unknown woman that I had accidentally grabbed; she was all I had to hold on to, the last defender against the vicious threat of the stone warriors.
I felt like writing.
On page 487 of Garp, plan to finish tomorrow.
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There are certain nodes that people find throughout the course of things: spots that come rhythmically, in between the mighty crests and deep troughs of life's wild oscillations, which imply neither happiness or sadness but can't help but imply a profound ambivalence. I feel like I'm at one of these spots now. Things are good and things are bad, all at the same time.
Maybe I'll expand on this another time, but I'd rather not get into specifics. My brother's gotten enough of those, and since he's the only one reading this lonesome journal, I'll spare him the trouble again.
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Life really picks it's spots, doesn't it?
And if that isn't cryptic enough for you, I pose this question:
Whatever happened to the Golden Ball?
Here's the prospective reading list for the near future:
-The World According to Garp by John Irving
-Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
-Even Cowgirls Get The Blues by Tom Robbins
-V. by Thomas Pynchon
-The Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
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sirbrixalot's journal