Llareggub

May 29

If you haven’t read any Jean-Paul Sartre, do so now. Right this minute.

Life has no meaning a priori.

Sartre

May 15

“God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I’m not crazy about.” David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“She hated the namelessness of women in stories, as if they lived and died so that men could have metaphysical insights.” Chad Harbach, The Art of Fielding (via fissionaccomplished)

May 9

Acediac angst. I’m a voyeur, lapping up Foucault dining with Bukowski.

There isn’t a parlance. There’s just Plath stripping naked to Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. Just beauty in its crystalline conception. Frosted glass, with a cascading vermillion, Whiplashing femininity into consumerist bullshit. I see smooth thighs, tight hot everythings. Mother earth, waxed, on page three. Why not just slam her on the mortuary lab, for pro-life Texans to wank over? I will my football season to come to a close. It won’t, of course, I’m gutless. You: my brunette nymphomaniac existentialist. You: heavenly father. Beloved of the Kingdom of hypocrisy. Innocent as a buggered choir-boy. Why is it the 10th May 2012? The passports are burning. Nuns fill in VAT reciepts for their Levonelle. Osborne ticks a box. Sex will give you momentary escapism. She’ll be good too. You’ll talk for a year. She’ll have real chutzpah zeitgeist.

Then you’ll yearn again. Over a post-coital cigarette.

For Thomas Pogge and a girl for life.

Now he turns up fifteen or twenty years later … Literally he has, from all the evidence, been through hell. … he shared among the teeth and excrement of this life something that cannot be described but in the words he has used to describe it. It is a howl of defeat. Not defeat at all for he has gone through defeat as if it were an ordinary experience, a trivial experience. Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man, is not defeated.

Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going through hell.

Nebulous transcience.

It can write a pretty poem,

But it can’t mortgage a house.

Life’s a four Act play written by a misanthrope.

No dope.

No joke.

Who’s sorry now Bobcats?

Just ask out Dippermouth Spanier.

Just ask him to play you the blues.

Bring in the Berg,

Call up Mahler, Strauss, Ghandi.

Get the booze in.

This ships fucking sinking,

So why not tuck in.