Friday, July 09, 2004

I'm off for a family reunion in Elk City, Oklahoma. I know you're jealous but try to contain yourselves whilst I'm gone.
2:38:11 PM    What do you think?  []  trackback []

At the risk of sounding ridiculously snide, this guy is ridiculously paranoid.
8:09:13 AM    What do you think?  []  trackback []

The flowers in front of The Container Store were colorful, one could call them a sea of color. But what exactly constitutes a sea of color? How much color does a sea of color really require? Does Thomas Kinkade play a part in the decision? Maybe this bed was just a pond or a stream of color. And why was I thinking about the descriptive term for a bed of posies? Because I was afraid. Not in that night-terror, massive turbulence in a jumbo jet, sonofabitchhasgotagunandwantsallyourmoneysoyoupissyourpants sort of afraid, but afraid nonetheless. Thinking of how to describe a rather ordinary bed of posies (or where they daisies? Hell I don’t know) was much preferred to opening the door to Barnes and Noble and trying to decide between My Life and A Good Walk Spoiled. Ok maybe not My Life but some book for comparisons sake. To look at all those titles and try to make a choice, to decide one book was better than the other, that frightened me. So much so that even though my entire purpose this evening was to go and choose a new book, I could scarcely handle the fear of opening up the doors to the bookstore. So here I stand, staring at a bed of flowers of unknown type, avoiding my only purpose in life at this particular moment. Because I was afraid to choose. Afraid to commit. Afraid to take a fork in the road (pardon me, Mr. Frost, I’m in a hurry) and see where it led. These things scare me. Fucking frighten me really. What if I’m wrong? What if I screw up? What if that boy down the street sees me and thinks I’m a dork? These things can’t happen so I think about fucking flowers instead. It leads to a kind of paralysis, a constipation really. It’s not so much that some injury or debilitating injury has caused me to not be able to enter Barnes and Noble. More like I’ve ingested things that make it impossible to pass shit from my brain. A man and a woman (or was that a man and a man, I just can’t tell) walk by oblivious to my quandary. Do they deal with such matters? Who cares? I care. I care about such things because I’m a care machine. I exude care as long as it’s abstract and easy, nothing concrete that might have actual effect in the world. Ah shit, I’m just going to go in the store, pick up the first book on the front table and get the hell out of there. Unless it’s My Life. Then I’m going to have to fucking browse. Because who’s life is so empty as to read that shit?
12:30:07 AM    What do you think?  []  trackback []