Saturday, February 25, 2006

Snippets of internal monologue.

  • Technically, if you hold the traditional heaven or hell view, we're in limbo. Inbetween either final destination.
  • Im only lonely when Im around lots of other people.
  • What if in a parallel universe friends are items of food which go well together. This hypothesis falls short when you consider that which flavors mix well is a personal choice; for example some might find cold leftovers more inviting then actual meal or find gone off food delicious (not that I personally can relate to such preferences. Ahem.). Still if your not an atheist you could consider the possibility that maybe God likes certain mixtures of food. I'm really not presenting this as some answer to human questions or even a serious philosophical theory but what if I'm a piece of cheese and my friend a chunk of bread? What if?!
  • Why the hell do we have such a vast supply of poetry books on gardening? It really was an surreal experience searching through one of the many cardboard boxes of books that shape the cluttered landscape of our house. These books have been in their cardboard constraints since my parents moved here from Africa 25 years ago. There I was dusting off old jackets when I found these odd poetry books 'Green fingers'. There was two copies of Green fingers, I was wondering why do we have two, then I found 'Green thumb'. After that I discovered 'Green fingers again', this struck me as funny it was almost as if the book was saying, "Yes another one, another green fingers book." At first I thought they were children's books but in 'Green fingers again' somebody had underlined 'pollination' this poem delt with a spinster who decided to rid her life of sex by sitting in the perfect, smutless, garden world she had grown, only she was unaware that the pears were fucking furtively behind her back. It's an strange thing to find and I doubt I'll figure out the origin of the books or who they belong(ed) to.
  • Being slight certifiable isn't that bad because everything makes sense. Except fruit.
  • Fruit does not make sense.
  • Both my parents are writers/write.

BOOGIE

posted by Boogie @ 3:26 PM 0 comments

Saturday, February 18, 2006

Tired

There's plently to write about and sure there's loads of ideas winging their way around. It's impossible to write when you have a weight inside your head that seems to be only a burden of slimy squiggles that's unfamiliar suddenly. The scapegoat I've been using to keep me comfortable is sixth form. Disbolical sixth form turning my already dire spelling to piss, stopping me from reading by stealing my time. Sixth form- writing inspiration consumer. Despite being excellent at self deception sometimes the painful truth breaks through the soft wrapping of lies, when it does it's not pleasant. I can't read anymore what I used to find in books appears to have gone, something pulls me out of the words. Writing is an elusive figure that I am unable to understand.
I really can't remember if last winter was this bad, I didn't dwell on it in the happiness of summer I forgot the gloom in winter, thus when a new grey lifeless Autumn rolls around it hits me with such an impact as if I have never encountered this blow before. Nothing that gave me simple enjoyment is the same, something has corrupted it leaving it drab and useless. This change could be linked to one source- another thing that doesn't feel the same is me, I do not trust myself or rather what is left of myself. Instead of where I used to inhabit a dull death has taken up residence. It surely could not have been this bad last year? Perhaps it wasn't, I don't want to go out or see people I don't want to get up in the morning. Sleep would be a blessing to sink into but it grants me few such wonderful oblivious hours.
An explanation for my lack of posts, I'll be fine I have my brothers and a great Black Flag album. After all I've been through this before. . . . I think.
BOOGIE

posted by Boogie @ 5:16 PM 0 comments