i sit down to a nice bar of chocolate and my terry pratchett, only to have my dreams of silent rumbling laughter (giggle jiggle, for those of you in the know) and warm melt-in-my-mouth chocolate goodness dashed at the very first line. the very first one.
a little asterisk after a seemingly-ordinary phrase (It was midnight in Ankh-Morpork's Royal Art Museum*) that mocks me with its promise of more. ...what royal art museum? art by royalty? royalty as subjects of art? or perhaps there's no real connection at all between the royalty and the art. perhaps some little old queen just inaugurated it once, a long time ago. maybe the wind flew up and revealed her yellow polka dot panties as she did it, resulting in a tremendous scandal. maybe she wasn't wearing panties at all. maybe it's performance art. if so, was there a butt double? maybe there was once a shootout there, a bit like the one at the guggenheim in the international. maybe.
what was terry pratchett trying to tell me, damn it?
whatever it is, i. is. wanting. to. know.
even the next line (Glenda sleeps in an ancient iron bed.*). there are so many possibilities for interesting stories about beds that i don't even know how to express in words how i feel about the lack of said accompanying footnote. it breaks my heart a little, that. it really really does.
someone (THIS person) shall have to answer for this.
Dramatic Personality Disorders: Antisocial, Borderline, Histrionic, and Narcissistic
not to mention truly dumb dumb charades and britney spears / guilty pleasure music marathons. mashed potatoes and almost taboo. participants shall remain unnamed to protect reputations all around. instead i dub thee as follows:
the monster Baby
simply put: the Legs flailing
the vaguely confused Screaming
the underservedly Unmolested video-ing
the vengeful Pacifist singing
all those who need to know know what i'm talking about. ;)
perhaps something more profound to say later when i'm not quite as happily well fed and drawing such a goddamn blank.
currently: well-fed and lazy; gently rumbling tummies and happy sighs.
listening: what i like about you - the romantics.
off down to a locked door steel lock. confusion. where? where? where?
turn around, walk back, voices. room. glint. metal. key. there. hello!
almost forgot. bye-bye.
things i love are nailpolish, kangarooes, and the color yellow.
juice is also good. maybe for drinking. maybe.
say hello from time to time. we won't die. i won't get up and start barking. its okay. we can make snow. if you can't make your mind up...
coupling. sex. isn't the english language weird. i wonder who the first professor of the english language was. and chippendale dancers. wow. and tlc, for that matter. and smiley people with teeth that are just way too damn white. people that smile too much are...in need of watching.
also, love. love is rain. fleeting. like hilary duff.
criminal as it may be, we can't all be fluffy. some of us are straight. and some are shiny. some have too much. and some have too little. but hair is hair. and that's that.
i've got may peace prevail on earth on my mind. non liquet. the icj. a situation without answers. a void. a place where nobody knows what to do, or how to do it.
there's a guitar in my hand. mona lisa. the last of your kind. lover i don't have to love. first thing on my mind. there's a little more left to write.
crinkle dink, crinkle dink.
the space flies have landed.
currently: cherry-lipped, worrisome, guitar in hand.
listening: hallelujah - jeff buckley.
i know what a sextet is, but i'd rather not say.
mister musician man, do what you will with that. ;)
a blogging phase has begun anew. perhaps i'm confronting feelings. perhaps i'm just avoiding work. whatever it is, i suppose it's good to be easing back into it.
my pocket geographical dictionary is a well-worn friend, indeed. labour law miracle on dasht-e-lut with an umbrella and a cup of tea. light snacks, light showers, good reading.
currently: bare feet on cold stone. giving a post-laughing fit listen to three marlenas by the wallflowers. that jakob dylan sure is sexy.
the bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
did wander darkling in the eternal space,
rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
morn came and went - and came, and brought no day,
and men forgot their passions in the dread
of this their desolation; and all hearts
were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
and they did live by watchfires - and the thrones,
the palaces of crowned kings - the huts,
the habitations of all things which dwell,
were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
and men were gather'd round their blazing homes
to look once more into each other's face;
happy were those who dwelt within the eye
of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
a fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
forests were set on fire - but hour by hour
they fell and faded - and the crackling trunks
extinguish'd with a crash - and all was black.
the brows of men by the despairing light
wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
the flashes fell upon them; some lay down
and hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
and others hurried to and fro, and fed
their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
with mad disquietude on the dull sky,
the pall of a past world; and then again
with curses cast them down upon the dust,
and gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
and, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
and flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
and twin'd themselves among the multitude,
hissing, but stingless - they were slain for food.
and War, which for a moment was no more,
did glut himself again: a meal was bought
with blood, and each sate sullenly apart
gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
all earth was but one thought - and that was death
immediate and inglorious; and the pang
of famine fed upon all entrails - men
died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
the meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
and he was faithful to a corse, and kept
the birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
but with a piteous and perpetual moan,
and a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
which answer'd not with a caress - he died.
the crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
of an enormous city did survive,
and they were enemies: they met beside
the dying embers of an altar-place
where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
for an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
and shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
the feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
blew for a little life, and made a flame
which was a mockery; then they lifted up
their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
each other's aspects - saw, and shriek'd, and died -
even of their mutual hideousness they died,
unknowing who he was upon whose brow
famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
the populous and the powerful was a lump,
seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless -
a lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
the rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
and nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
and their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
they slept on the abyss without a surge -
the waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
the moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
the winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
and the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
of aid from them - she was the universe."
- lord byron
because, its perfect.