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2000 Monkeys probably wrote this |
jeannie6999 |
poetry:
music:
prose:
letters:
nonsense:
misc:
copyright xeniot (monkey #101) 1998 - 2001 |
I didn't do much for memorial day. I guess that was a whole week ago,
huh? My memory must be getting the hot end of the blowdrier from all
these late nights and pear brandy binges. All in a day's work, I guess.
Stupid book. I was downtown today and while it was raining I walked past
somebody who was scribbling in a little notebook. He looked up at me as
ifa monster had been created in front of him, just for him to look at,
just as I was wondering if he was a detective, which is another kind of
monster. Monster monstly means one-of-a-kind. Mons. Olympus Mons. I
think that's oin the moon. I think I am the only person from my ninth
grade class who is literally haunted by Greek roots. The same teacher who
told us about kidney stones as though we all cared was the same one who
told us Greek and latin roots would come in so terribly useful. But
anyway, if the bloke with the notebook wasn't a detective, I will probably
make it into his story. Or maybe a poem. I'd have a hard time writing
anything but a poem in a little 4 inche notebook. Or a shopping list.
Maybe I made it into his shopping list. One fool, wandering through
Portland in the rain; might also be found trudging through the library;
wearing a blue corduroy jacket and too much hair; can be kept safely with
cats and small children but not with women; do not fold, crinkle, or spoit
as he may be considered poorly armed and desperate enought to use
paperclips as mortal weapons...or too long words. Sorry. Ontological
means existence or identity, so ontological bankruptcy means a loss of
identity only it's a philosophical buzzword instead of a soan buzzword.
Nobody knows what they are anymore. In the fifties it was easy: job,
country, family. The American Dream, as you say. I have switched my
music to hard trance. Sixties and seventies that didn't work. The
American dream, that is. Hard to say what we have today. Less than we
did. Maybe that's better. Maybe once we realize we aren't anything at
all- nah,, the existentialists already did that... I'm sorry, I should shut up. I'm avoidding something I should be doing, which is banging on my Y2K compliant typerwriter beastie friend, who is rarely offended at anything I say, which I hope you won't be under any conditions. Although it did lose a roller the other day and makes an interesting noise when I use the carriage return. Yes, what I wa strying to say is that I'm not trying to push any buttons via talk about identity. Even if you don't know what you were made for and what you're supposed to do, you're a bright cookie. You'll figure it out and do a bleeding good job of it. It's just that I consider you, well, at least familiar enough with my breed of psychosis, so that even if you don't understand me, for which I would hardly blame you, though I wouldn't mind if you did, you at least will not be terribly surprised or offended at my my sleep-avoiding and probably excessively honest ramblings. Yih. Correct me if I'm wrong. This is too long for an email.
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