Friday, December 5, 2008

Little babies, little babies, recollections of a childhood actress

Do you ever find music so bad or find it of so little quality that you actually feel someone might be pretentious to claim enjoying and actually finding interest in it? Yeah, well that's how I feel sometimes about half of everything. Mostly Sigur Ros and Bob D.
So I'm sitting here on the couch downstairs (to enjoy the internet--current internet upstairs nonexistent, or residing in the same realm as heat and warm water). In the background are three housemates enjoying, engaging, giggling in the coital throws of the oh-so-experimental Sigur Ros documentary.
Maybe this is good music. I really wouldn't know. Do you have to take an honest part in art to have an adequate opinion of it? I think not. Or else about 89% of critics would be out of their jobs.
This afternoon in my afternoon class that I stayed late on campus for on a Friday afternoon (I would like to see how many times I can use this nine letter a-word as much as possible in one sentence without seeming floppy). Well, in this class my older teacher collapsed and passed out and we had to call an ambulance. I feel like my heart is still feeling tremors of terror, guilt, and shock from it still. Basically, I think it is because we expect teachers to be infallible and keep a distance away from them as emotional beings. We don't want to think of our professors enjoying in fornication, spawning children, getting their period, masturbating, vomiting, ejaculating, wiping their butt, or collapsing... but they do indeed (gender allowing) and it's a hard concept to swallow. It is this kind of trust within authority and structure, and reliance on a higher figure to maintain a certain control in our lives that can produce this ineffable feeling of shock. This feeling in which we are filled with a chaotic grief and fear. Suddenly the world isn't ordered anymore. Suddenly turning in a paper isn't the question or the answer, because the teacher isn't on this planet to read it. Somebody is getting a divorce, some building is collapsing, some car just crashed, someone's lung just caved in, and the world economy just died. I know. I don't mean to get all dooms-day on my first blog post. I generally try to stay clear of such terrible cravings, but given the sense of the day, it seemed appropriate. The structures we center ourselves in are arbitrary, collapsible, and in a sense: cardboard cut outs. They seem reliable and stationery, but really they could fold in on us at anytime. At any rate, the good news is I still have a drop of good ol compassion in my dry, crusted cold veins. The bad news is that I perform terribly in a situation of distress and emergency.

Tonight for my friend's birthday I cut out lyrics of her favorite band and made a poem out of it, as did my other friends. It has turned into a convoluted epic, and I certainly hope she enjoys it. Tomorrow will be filled with much town scurrying, present buying, showering, restauranting, and then hopefully a joyous night of vaginalemergenceanniversarycelebratorydancing.

Be back later.

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