An ass in the crack of humanity
Blog title from the song "Ride Bikes with You" by The Moldy Peaches. Yeahba. Hello there. Hello. Intro, Mike, Tess, Mike, Tess? (As far as jokes go, that was high school freshman-lame.)
Hell of an introduction for a ramble of epic proportions. Not really epic, since it's about two in the morning, and I've got History class tomorrow (later), so no time for epics, no energy, no liquor in my bloodstream to keep me chugging along.
What am I here for? What is the meaning of life -- 41 or 42? I forget. Someone please remind me. I am not trying to be witty -- I simply do not remember that line from that movie.
Anyhoo. I spent the weekend reading the first fifty pages of Alice Hoffman's The River King -- which I picked up (200 pesos sa fourth floor ng NBS Cubao!) with the suspicion that I'd read it before -- only to realize that I actually have read it before. I looked at the fresh dump of my To Be Read pile, ignored them, and asked Pancho for his copy of Paul Auster's The Brooklyn Follies. I've never been known to give intellectual feedback about anything in particular (ugh, self-deprecation this early, damn it, haha), so I can't say anything beyond: Yeah, okay, so far only the second novel of Auster's I've read. Characters feel a little stiff sometimes, but that's just me. Nathan Glass is a pretty solid character, though, not so much stiff, as, well, solid. Human redemption and all that jazz. Touching at some points, but not gushy touching. Like, tangina-galing touching. Blah blah blah.
Do not take me seriously; I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't even know if I used that semi-colon correctly. What did Kurt Vonnegut, bless his soul, say? "If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be a homosexual, the least you can do is go into the arts. But do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites, standing for absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college." Wasak.
Blargh. This is one of the several quotes I copied to my journal: "Did I love her? Yes, I probably loved her. To the extent that I was capable of loving anyone, Joyce was the woman for me, the only candidate on my list. And even if it wasn't the full-blown, one hundred percent passion that supposedly defines the word love, it was something that fell just short of it -- but so close to the mark as to render the distinction meaningless." Look it up if you don't believe me: page 278.
(If this blog entry gets any more I, I, I, then the next sentence would probably read: This comes close to hitting the mark about what I feel for someone.) This comes close to hitting the mark about what I feel for someone. Someone. Funny little euphemism, this word. Someone. Anyway, I say that aforementioned quote comes close to hitting aforementioned mark, if only in yet another self-deprecating dimension of the whole What is Love, Really? claptrap discourses (did I just say claptrap?) -- like, Section II.A, subheading C: How you love -- this love you supposedly carry with you for this Someone, this love you [expletive deleted] feel for that Someone -- and the definition of love (if there is a definition, at all) is, in many ways, asymptotic (woo, math!). The whole closer-and-closer thing but never-meeting thing. But does that nullify this love, whatever it is? Of course not. See Auster quote. So, no, of course not. Whatever love may be, whatever this love may be -- who the fuck cares about defining even this? Do we hold nothing sacred anymore? Oh, Love. Love. Love. Ah, Love. Fucking love. -- fuck it, love na nga eh. So close to the mark as to render the distinction meaningless -- there, it's been said, why do I even have to lose myself in the system and goddamn explain it?
I just lost myself.
Someone got a dose of happy pills this morning. Ain't it sweet?
Hell of an introduction for a ramble of epic proportions. Not really epic, since it's about two in the morning, and I've got History class tomorrow (later), so no time for epics, no energy, no liquor in my bloodstream to keep me chugging along.
What am I here for? What is the meaning of life -- 41 or 42? I forget. Someone please remind me. I am not trying to be witty -- I simply do not remember that line from that movie.
Anyhoo. I spent the weekend reading the first fifty pages of Alice Hoffman's The River King -- which I picked up (200 pesos sa fourth floor ng NBS Cubao!) with the suspicion that I'd read it before -- only to realize that I actually have read it before. I looked at the fresh dump of my To Be Read pile, ignored them, and asked Pancho for his copy of Paul Auster's The Brooklyn Follies. I've never been known to give intellectual feedback about anything in particular (ugh, self-deprecation this early, damn it, haha), so I can't say anything beyond: Yeah, okay, so far only the second novel of Auster's I've read. Characters feel a little stiff sometimes, but that's just me. Nathan Glass is a pretty solid character, though, not so much stiff, as, well, solid. Human redemption and all that jazz. Touching at some points, but not gushy touching. Like, tangina-galing touching. Blah blah blah.
Do not take me seriously; I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't even know if I used that semi-colon correctly. What did Kurt Vonnegut, bless his soul, say? "If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be a homosexual, the least you can do is go into the arts. But do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites, standing for absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college." Wasak.
Blargh. This is one of the several quotes I copied to my journal: "Did I love her? Yes, I probably loved her. To the extent that I was capable of loving anyone, Joyce was the woman for me, the only candidate on my list. And even if it wasn't the full-blown, one hundred percent passion that supposedly defines the word love, it was something that fell just short of it -- but so close to the mark as to render the distinction meaningless." Look it up if you don't believe me: page 278.
(If this blog entry gets any more I, I, I, then the next sentence would probably read: This comes close to hitting the mark about what I feel for someone.) This comes close to hitting the mark about what I feel for someone. Someone. Funny little euphemism, this word. Someone. Anyway, I say that aforementioned quote comes close to hitting aforementioned mark, if only in yet another self-deprecating dimension of the whole What is Love, Really? claptrap discourses (did I just say claptrap?) -- like, Section II.A, subheading C: How you love -- this love you supposedly carry with you for this Someone, this love you [expletive deleted] feel for that Someone -- and the definition of love (if there is a definition, at all) is, in many ways, asymptotic (woo, math!). The whole closer-and-closer thing but never-meeting thing. But does that nullify this love, whatever it is? Of course not. See Auster quote. So, no, of course not. Whatever love may be, whatever this love may be -- who the fuck cares about defining even this? Do we hold nothing sacred anymore? Oh, Love. Love. Love. Ah, Love. Fucking love. -- fuck it, love na nga eh. So close to the mark as to render the distinction meaningless -- there, it's been said, why do I even have to lose myself in the system and goddamn explain it?
I just lost myself.
Someone got a dose of happy pills this morning. Ain't it sweet?
Labels: Life, Literature, Sweetness
posted by Sasha Martinez at
1:22:00 AM
2 Comments:
Nakakatuwa kang mag-ramble. Anyway, it's 42. ;) And you should try Auster's "In the Country of Last Things" and "The Invention of Solitude" before giving up.
I'll take that as a compliment, hehe. :)
Dami ngang nagrecommend sa "In the Country of Last Things," but siyempre, makulit ako, "The Brooklyn Follies" at "The New York Trilogy" binili namin ni Pancho. Haha. Stubborn, just for the principle of it. :p
42!
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