I feel smote down by the duldrums of $8.50 an hour and having to work on a Sunday. My revenge is to sit here and blog about it, which is some small recompense.
Emily and I have a new boarder in our home, whose heart thrums like an engine when she’s happy, and who only speaks at night. She’s very shy, but she hasn’t gotten used to us yet.
As for the perfection of language, I think that language is perfect. It is those who try and use it that are flawed. Our expression, as well as our understanding of language are both intrinsically flawed, because we don’t think and we don’t see in words. In any case, I like language for its ambiguity. I like that two people can read a book and get different things out of it, because so much depends on our perception of language, as well as how it is used.
Entire novels are written simply to express one idea. That’s 500 pages devoted to trying to express one thing, in the end, and even then they aren’t always understood. As for my writing, even I don’t understand it sometimes.
Today my brain is tired, and my heart feels like lead.
My fingers are typing independently, willfully … I can’t keep track of them. My eyes simply gaze, straight ahead, listless. I blame it all on the duldrums of $8.50 an hour and having to work on a Sunday. I blame it on the extraordinary distance between two points, and the law of half-lives. I’m walking towards my future, closing half the distance each step, knowing that at this rate, I’ll never reach it.
The white man is coming! The cannon!
We must put on clothes, submit to baptism, work…
With my apologies to Rimbaud for what is probably a mild mis-quote.