Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Write on scraps of paper.
I saw a lady wearing a huge fox fur coat eating ice cream on Saturday. Sitting on the pedway over 102nd street gives me this huge omnicient observer feeling. I'm fairly certain that given an appropriate amount of boredom/free time, that I could make a hobby of curling up in the overstuffed leather armchairs and writing blips of what I see going on down below.
Fading Decadence
Her face was peeping out amongst the billowing pile of the jacket, slightly flushed from the once-warm-blooded jacket she was larsoniously burrowed into. Her face was of typical old faintly stale smelling age- the age where makeup is a blanket, not an accentuation, on paper-thin wrinkled creases. Her hair was a #89 Burnt Sienna cloud that floated and bobed as she crept along carefully nursing the colorful ice cream with a pinkish grey tongue wobbling about. The ice cream cone, grasped in carefully matching shiny kid gloves, was dangerously close to the soft shining long hair on the lapels on her coat. Impossibly close to flexing the dexterity, in a way unnatural. The smell would have been overwhelming. Perhaps a grandchild would later remark on mingled scents of sweat reminiscent of baby powder and stale medicine, embracing old treated and gamey fox-hide, kissed with hairspray and vanilla raspberry ice cream.
As A Man Rocketh
As far as I could tell, he'd missed his bus twice, maybe thrice. The old boy next to him with screwed up features was an indifferent sort, but indifferent in the manner that only those truly blessed by the light of the sun can be. He watched his hands dance in front of him, wondered what they were so excited about, and felt his body follow the pull of his wringing wriggling fingers. Leaning forward on his left foot, he seemed to look searchingly to the other side of the street, or perhaps there was something of interest splattered on the sidewalk. He leaned back slowly, a tentative gesture to examine the sky. I wondered if he saw me, wondered if I should wave. Quicker this time, he leaned forward, face closer to the sidewalk then before, and even quicker, he leaned back. His fingers beat out time nervously patting his thighs before he shoved them into the pockets of his brown corduroy jacket. And he rocked forward again, middle-aged knees fluidly bending as he rocked back, and forward again, marking the appearance of a steadily crescending rhythm born on the street. Back and forth, to and fro, so quickly that his peers at the bus stop were slightly agitated. They gawped and gaped and the rocking intensified to an impossible rate.
I wondered if you could dissappear if you stood in one spot and rocked fast enough, never being still, constantly moving air particles around you, quicker and quicker. Would it create a vacuous space? All humans are always in motion, even imperceptively so at times. I wondered if this was a defense mechanism, a returning to the clutch of a comforting mother, as the motion so often returns to. All humans, when seated, rock back and forth- it is only when you think about it that you notice it. I wondered if rocking is what holds us on the planet, apart from allowing us our stance on two feet as we run or walk around destroying everything and everyone around us. The bus came for the third or fourth time, and the man halted abruptly. The quiet fellow next to him took his hand and led him out of sight from the street.
"One must be a fox in order to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten off wolves."
In an exercise of great pretentiousness, I bought The Prince by Machiavelli (see, namedropping with no first name- I'm on the right track) today. Seriously though, I've been planning to read the book for at least three years now, based on a recommendation from my old friend Myke. It's actually a relatively easy read, which is not what I was expecting (how come pretentious books gotta be so hard to read sometimes? Just kidding). So far, it's all about how lineage or the lackthereof affects direct rule of a country. And there are some fairly apt truths to the book. I mean, no matter how pacifist we all pretend or claim to be, or want to be, it seems pretty inescapeable that, "there is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others." More universally, this would extend to any kind of conflict, not just arm wars, or other futile efforts involving our favorite double-yuh acronyms.
Additionally, a bargain bin dig at the bookstore yielded a nearly complete digest of Antonio Gaudi's work exposed bilingually. The best way to sum up Gaudi would be in the words "nature, technique and artistry" or neo-Romantic baroque (such as were some of the tastes of modernism). The guy is not overly known for much, but what he has done, is exceptional. I haven't seen that much of it yet, but he's got this thing for mosaics and really organic architecture (I always think art noveau... but not...), but man, some sculpture as well that is fucking incredible. I have books! And no money! Excitement! ¶ 3:07 PM
Fading Decadence
Her face was peeping out amongst the billowing pile of the jacket, slightly flushed from the once-warm-blooded jacket she was larsoniously burrowed into. Her face was of typical old faintly stale smelling age- the age where makeup is a blanket, not an accentuation, on paper-thin wrinkled creases. Her hair was a #89 Burnt Sienna cloud that floated and bobed as she crept along carefully nursing the colorful ice cream with a pinkish grey tongue wobbling about. The ice cream cone, grasped in carefully matching shiny kid gloves, was dangerously close to the soft shining long hair on the lapels on her coat. Impossibly close to flexing the dexterity, in a way unnatural. The smell would have been overwhelming. Perhaps a grandchild would later remark on mingled scents of sweat reminiscent of baby powder and stale medicine, embracing old treated and gamey fox-hide, kissed with hairspray and vanilla raspberry ice cream.
As A Man Rocketh
As far as I could tell, he'd missed his bus twice, maybe thrice. The old boy next to him with screwed up features was an indifferent sort, but indifferent in the manner that only those truly blessed by the light of the sun can be. He watched his hands dance in front of him, wondered what they were so excited about, and felt his body follow the pull of his wringing wriggling fingers. Leaning forward on his left foot, he seemed to look searchingly to the other side of the street, or perhaps there was something of interest splattered on the sidewalk. He leaned back slowly, a tentative gesture to examine the sky. I wondered if he saw me, wondered if I should wave. Quicker this time, he leaned forward, face closer to the sidewalk then before, and even quicker, he leaned back. His fingers beat out time nervously patting his thighs before he shoved them into the pockets of his brown corduroy jacket. And he rocked forward again, middle-aged knees fluidly bending as he rocked back, and forward again, marking the appearance of a steadily crescending rhythm born on the street. Back and forth, to and fro, so quickly that his peers at the bus stop were slightly agitated. They gawped and gaped and the rocking intensified to an impossible rate.
I wondered if you could dissappear if you stood in one spot and rocked fast enough, never being still, constantly moving air particles around you, quicker and quicker. Would it create a vacuous space? All humans are always in motion, even imperceptively so at times. I wondered if this was a defense mechanism, a returning to the clutch of a comforting mother, as the motion so often returns to. All humans, when seated, rock back and forth- it is only when you think about it that you notice it. I wondered if rocking is what holds us on the planet, apart from allowing us our stance on two feet as we run or walk around destroying everything and everyone around us. The bus came for the third or fourth time, and the man halted abruptly. The quiet fellow next to him took his hand and led him out of sight from the street.
"One must be a fox in order to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten off wolves."
In an exercise of great pretentiousness, I bought The Prince by Machiavelli (see, namedropping with no first name- I'm on the right track) today. Seriously though, I've been planning to read the book for at least three years now, based on a recommendation from my old friend Myke. It's actually a relatively easy read, which is not what I was expecting (how come pretentious books gotta be so hard to read sometimes? Just kidding). So far, it's all about how lineage or the lackthereof affects direct rule of a country. And there are some fairly apt truths to the book. I mean, no matter how pacifist we all pretend or claim to be, or want to be, it seems pretty inescapeable that, "there is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others." More universally, this would extend to any kind of conflict, not just arm wars, or other futile efforts involving our favorite double-yuh acronyms.
Additionally, a bargain bin dig at the bookstore yielded a nearly complete digest of Antonio Gaudi's work exposed bilingually. The best way to sum up Gaudi would be in the words "nature, technique and artistry" or neo-Romantic baroque (such as were some of the tastes of modernism). The guy is not overly known for much, but what he has done, is exceptional. I haven't seen that much of it yet, but he's got this thing for mosaics and really organic architecture (I always think art noveau... but not...), but man, some sculpture as well that is fucking incredible. I have books! And no money! Excitement! ¶ 3:07 PM
