Flame burns, rain sinks into the cracks
And they all go to rack ruin beneath the thud of the years,
Stands genius a deathless adornment,
a name not to be worn out with the years.
Ezra Pound, Homage to Sextus Propertius
No one will miss this year. No one will miss the last. We're in a waiting era, hewn from stillness and quiet discomfort. I miss smoking; smoking would be a relief against this stasis. At least cancer, in a grim joking way, is progress.
So, friends, you see here moping before you the hangdog Headonist, all head and no hedon. My girlfriend is in the process of unbecoming my girlfriend -- a slow-motion crash, an entropic parody of the way people get together.
The immediate effect is aimlessness, especially on New Years Eve. I suppose I could take myself out. I would go to the bar, and sit reading, as I usually do, and watch awful people celebrating in expressively awful ways. Young couples would be overdressed for the cheap bar, and drinks would spill, and that would be a riot for everyone. Several "gracious" women would ask me if I wanted to join them; their less gracious boyfriends would laugh at my book. At quarter to, the crowd would sway. Ten nine eight et cetera. No way out then. And two one everyone's kissing noise color and yes, that would be something, that would be warming for a moment, and a reason worth suffering the rest. But then the moment would breaks open and everyone would suddenly become so much louder and drunker. And I would walk home, avoiding the vomiting strays, and fall asleep in the chair.
No, instead I think I'll treat myself to something of which I'm very fond: myself. I'll be obstinate, cloistered, and joyful. I'll stay home, yessir, and drink champagne from the bottle, and watch Fritz Lang silents, and set my jaw. And I'll still fall asleep in the chair.
* * *
Yet already I begin my gruff rebound. I texted a friend:
Me: You should throw a New Years Eve orgy. Wait: do I actually want to fuck any of your friends?
Her: probably not. maybe you should throw a nyr orgy & we'll see if i want to fuck any of yours.
Me: Hmmm. I don't really have any friends. Certainly not any orgy friends.
Her: sounds like something we shd work on in the new year.
Me: Ooo. Can I make fancy invitations?
That graphic design appeals to me as much as the prospect of the orgy is both charming and depressing.
Have a lovely night, folks and folkettes. Be brave, be safe, and remember me!
And they all go to rack ruin beneath the thud of the years,
Stands genius a deathless adornment,
a name not to be worn out with the years.
Ezra Pound, Homage to Sextus Propertius
No one will miss this year. No one will miss the last. We're in a waiting era, hewn from stillness and quiet discomfort. I miss smoking; smoking would be a relief against this stasis. At least cancer, in a grim joking way, is progress.
So, friends, you see here moping before you the hangdog Headonist, all head and no hedon. My girlfriend is in the process of unbecoming my girlfriend -- a slow-motion crash, an entropic parody of the way people get together.
The immediate effect is aimlessness, especially on New Years Eve. I suppose I could take myself out. I would go to the bar, and sit reading, as I usually do, and watch awful people celebrating in expressively awful ways. Young couples would be overdressed for the cheap bar, and drinks would spill, and that would be a riot for everyone. Several "gracious" women would ask me if I wanted to join them; their less gracious boyfriends would laugh at my book. At quarter to, the crowd would sway. Ten nine eight et cetera. No way out then. And two one everyone's kissing noise color and yes, that would be something, that would be warming for a moment, and a reason worth suffering the rest. But then the moment would breaks open and everyone would suddenly become so much louder and drunker. And I would walk home, avoiding the vomiting strays, and fall asleep in the chair.
No, instead I think I'll treat myself to something of which I'm very fond: myself. I'll be obstinate, cloistered, and joyful. I'll stay home, yessir, and drink champagne from the bottle, and watch Fritz Lang silents, and set my jaw. And I'll still fall asleep in the chair.
* * *
Yet already I begin my gruff rebound. I texted a friend:
Me: You should throw a New Years Eve orgy. Wait: do I actually want to fuck any of your friends?
Her: probably not. maybe you should throw a nyr orgy & we'll see if i want to fuck any of yours.
Me: Hmmm. I don't really have any friends. Certainly not any orgy friends.
Her: sounds like something we shd work on in the new year.
Me: Ooo. Can I make fancy invitations?
That graphic design appeals to me as much as the prospect of the orgy is both charming and depressing.
Have a lovely night, folks and folkettes. Be brave, be safe, and remember me!
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
Being edge and all means I have no ideas or opinions about beer, so feel free to make suggestions.
Music would vary- upbeat Daft Punk and The Avalanches to start, maybe throw some Ramones in there when things get hot and heavy... and a little AC/DC to shake things up.
I will admit that I don't know the sexual repertoire of most of my friends, but I'd imagine most are of up for anything- you'll have a hard time persuading most males to participate in more than spur-of-the moment homosexual encounters, though, since it is pretty Midwestern.
Come on, you know you want to! I'll even throw in a meal at Roots (http://www.allmenus.com/in/bloomington/19101-roots/menu/), the most AMAZING veg*n restaurant in Indiana.