Every precious human being's been a precious parent to you

Well my friends. The time has at last come for adios. I don't think I'm the same person I was when I started The Blog, and so it feels weird writing knowing about all the posts that precede me. All the posts. I'm having extreme difficulty reconciling my voice now with my past voice, or the way I view the The Blog now compared with how I used to, and these things I think, in turn, produce a sort of confusion that affects what confidence I have in how my voice has evolved. I used to think of The Blog as extremely private. I don't know why. Obviously it's not. I guess with blogs, there's a sort of private publicness at hand, which I don't know if I completely endorse without rigorous editorial standards. But I've almost completely stopped thinking of it as private. So what I'm saying is, not only do I not have the time to write posts anymore, but I don't know that I think of them the same way that I used to. I'm going to be embracing the fragmented self and kicking it on Tumblr for the time being, because it's fun and easy, and hopefully when I have more time on my hands I'll be collaborating with a friend on a new blog, a place for cohesive thoughts that Matter and are Important. Right now, I feel like I'm going absolutely mental, completely incapable of cohesion. But every time I come back here I feel as if I'm attending to some tumorous old version of myself, some reminder that this has all been linear, that I've been responsible, yes, me, and that I've transcended jack shit. I like to think that we transcend old versions of ourselves, and the internet allows us the illusion of this possibility. Although, lesbihonest, it'll just be more of the same shit, won't it?

http://thatssubjective.tumblr.com/

I'd say it's been real, but this is the internet, and nothing is, and how liberating.

How does this exist

The definition of Internet Gold-



"Cuz me nan's boyfriend, Derek, 'im always tell me nan that he is cunnilinguist. How many languages does that mean 'im speak?"

Oh, I remember you!

Are we really doing this then?

"This time Gucci is back in the slammer for some ridiculous traffic violations including; Driving on the wrong side of the road, running a red light or stop sign, damage to government property, obstruction, no license, no proof of insurance and other traffic charges, according to Curtis Davenport an Atlanta Police Department spokesperson."

"BUT WHERE ARE THE INDIANS??"

A few thoughts on this Dimal Thursday Afternoon, carried over from Wednesday:

-The workmen listening to the radio on the roof; it is turned low and there is lots of static and someone is talking, there is no music. i can also hear a heavy squeaking sound every now and then, which is louder than the radio, and usually accompanied by some light banging.

-Claude balled up somewhere inside the immense, crumpled quilt. I reach my hand in to find him, to make sure he is alive. He is buried deep within it. I make out fur and warmth, and I prod it until I feel him move. I can feel by the way his head is tucked into his body that he is balled up soundly and small, as if he is in a womb.

-The fungus that grew on the side of that pumpkin was actually beautiful even though I thought it was disgusting. I wish I had examined it longer. It's like I was afraid of it. Looking at well-developed fungus can sometimes be like looking at images of space.

-The pumpkin was sitting on a bookshelf, and the fungus only grew on the side that was facing the inside of the shelf, where the light did not hit it. While these things are probably definitely related, I'm more interested in the fact that it endowed the pumpkin with a sort of Jeckyll and Hyde type of quality. Again, I wish I had examined it longer. I spent weeks just staring at the nice side of that pumpkin. I didn't notice that it had begun to rot until a few days ago, and I let it sit there, and was surprised with how quickly the fungus appeared to be developing, taking on more intensified forms which I was only able to detect from the small edge of the fungus that could be seen from the pleasant side of the pumpkin. I could only see a tiny hint of it, but I knew it was growing, and I imagined what it could be like, and perhaps that's why I was so fearful of it, why, when I finally faced it this morning, lifted it down from the shelf to throw it away, I only glanced at it hurriedly, and then held it facing away from me as I carried to to the trash. So that now all I can remember about it are some colours. A deep teal in the middle, seeping out into sprawling patches of lighter blues and greens. Now it sits in the trash, a wall between us, and I still have no idea what it was really like.

-Claude dragging the sock dramatically across the carpet before laying into it. He attacks it wildly for a few seconds, then lies silently and still with it clutched in his mouth, slack-jawed, frustrated with anti-climax. I'd say it makes me feel bad to see him having to resort to hunting my dirty socks in order to express his sense of animalistic purpose, but I'm worse off. What do I get to hunt? Everything's been replaced by words.

-That kid in my class had ~Crèvecœur~ quotes on his phone. First of all, it's been weeks since we talked about ~Crèvecœur~. Second, this is how it went: so we were discussing the importance of laaanguage versus wriiiting in Willa Cather's My Antonia, and he made a point relating it to a passage from ~Crèvecœur~ to which the the professor responded that it was an excellent point and that he should find it and use it. Then he pulled out his phone, literally fiddled with it for like thirty seconds as the conversation carried on, and then when there was a pause and he was like, 'Oh I have that quote here it is guys,' and then read it out in his voice which is just like Hugh Grant's but better, and we are all just like, what a hessian. Like, what went on there? First of all, it's not like ~Crèvecœur~ is so mainstream that you can just find a specific passage that easily and that quickly on the internet, or even in a fucking book. Did he purposely save the passage on his phone because he planned on making that point? Did he have it on his phone anyway? Was it filed away in some easily accessible document that he had the motivation to remember? Does he know exactly in what part of ~Crèvecœur~ this passage is located and thus was able to google the document and locate it effortlessly? Does he have a research assistant to do shit like this for him, ready to strike at any moment? Did he actually have it memorized but was just pretending to read it off his phone so we didn't think he was weird? Is he a literary überhuman? What is most exalted then: him, the speed of the phone, or the passage?

-How did I not know Andy Samberg was doing Rahm Emanuel impersonations?

Though you can't help thinking about it nearly all the time

Came across this story last night and wept. Wept. I get so sentimental about it. I remember the first time I heard it read, I thought that nobody had ever or would ever understand love, at least the way I saw it, like Lydia Davis. I got very emotional about it, and I still do. Her work could very possibly be more of a relieving comfort to me than anything in my life, maybe besides the first few drops of coffee in the morning and whisky after a particularly trying afternoon, which are in themselves, remarkably capable. It's like reading your own thoughts without having to do any of the work, and it's so. beautifully. cathartic. Which is an important thing for a writer to be able to do. Her story "Kafka Cooks Dinner" is pretty much a play by play of what goes down every time I reach out to someone. Books are important, bro. They have many reasons for being, and serve many different purposes, just as each of us seeks different things from them. More about this later.

On the World Series: A Nationalistic Dispute Over the Nature of Perception

As usual, Peter playing the wild card.

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings."

So all plans for fall mixtapes, awesome blog posts, etc etc have been STUNTED due to the fact that I have no time to do anything but work and think about work goddammit I can't even sleep all I think about is rhetorical devices, and deadlines, and scary misogynistic professors, and did Brutus really have that in him or did Cassius put it there goddd just RELAX Cassius seriously, he is like a hyperactive child without his ADD medication. And it's about to get worse. ESSAYS, my friend, and, consequently, spending an outrageous amount of time and energy devoted to a very specific, very arguably inconsequential, set of material. I'm starting to forget why I think literature is important. If I think it's as important as other things. A big part of me feels it's an incredibly narrow niche to settle oneself into For All Of Time. The "Where Will You Be in 10 Yrs" Facebook quiz says I'm going to be a goddamn surgeon! It says I'm going to be someone's hero. And all I want to do is sit on a warm porch somewhere writing history plays. Not enough people writing history plays, these days, and so much good history despite it all!

Thinking about Political Science tho.

I want 2 b herd.

Anyway, this is more or less what my Halloween looked like, but with more PCP obviously, although perhaps the PCP is just implied always:

Claude has three pairs of socks going at once right now. He opens my sock drawer and steals them and hunts them. He rolls around on the floor with them tucked up into this frantic grasp, and teeths them mercilessly, feverishly, the most genuinely untamed thing I've seen ever in real life maybe. Sometimes I put catnip in the socks and he loses it completely. I love him so much, and respect him, perhaps, more than I've ever respected a person, although that's probably not true. He is the best. The Unmoved Mover that Caesar never was. Oh, he's incredible. At the end of everything he just lies there triumphantly on top of this pile of limp socks.

Oh also, I'm going home for Thanksgiving. What, the idea of jetting across the ocean for a few days just to achieve some sort of nostalgic wish-fulfilment in the form of a nationalist archetype is just simply ludicrous, you say? Well I'd have to agree. But I've been irrationally encumbered by this fervid will toward the sentiment of the romanticised American homestead, and these arms, they stretch, unbelievably so, under the guidance of delusion. Speaking of delusion, that's awl LyFe is lolol!! But one must allow oneself to seek false importance in some things, or else this is all just blank space, you know. I mean, I get it, it's blank space always no matter what we tell ourselves, we must look within etc etc. But one must allow oneself the indulgence of at least a couple metaphysical apparitions of Meaning, or else give way to, if nothing else, a vacuous, harrowing boredom.

See this is why I don't have time for this shit anymore. Can't we just keep it light? Purpose is the Cat. And going home for a fake holiday that is symbolic of many things it wasn't, and which I, despite everything, hold instinctually dear.

Lastly, and to add another brick onto the "holy shit these are all the implications of Facebook on our current lifestyle" heap, what do we think of the idea of judging, and knowing, that someone is perfect for you simply by looking at their Facebook? Can it be done? How far do these representations of ourselves extend? Can they ever amount to any form of authenticity? Can I myself ever amount to any form of authenticity, in terms of the perceptions of others? There is my authentic self, and there is the person I am able to communicate into being. So much is lost in between. No matter how candid or personal we might become with someone, one can simply never know the actuality of another person. Because it is physically impossible. I have no idea who my friends know. Some half-assed version of Paige, an impression based on some compilation of fragments of myself, limited always by time and place and circumstance. How does Facebook fit into this? Are the internet representations of ourselves really any less "authentic" than who others perceive us to be in "reality," or do we just think they are, because we haven't fully come to terms with the falsities of human interaction, and how they actually remove us further from ourselves? What about Facebook romance? What about real romance?

Christ, somebody get this bitch some segues.

too many clauses should be avoided

Rhetorical Device of the Week: THA ZEUGMA

Someone should really tell that girl she can not pull off that color

Rediscovered this photo, taken by Brigid at some party over spring break, back in New York. I'm going to tell you why it's a good picture. First of all, whose hand is that? It's literally as if Lisa Greco has a phantom artist hand to constantly promote her work while allowing her full use of both her hands. Second, the composition is fantastic. Third, that monster is doing a pretty good rendition, down to the sunburn (it was unusually sweltry that weekend, for April, and I spent a lot of time falling asleep on Lisa Greco's roof). Fourth, lightweight mustard yellow anorak. Fifth, if we can't sell you on Blackberrys being cool, I don't know who can. Speaking of cans, that one's pretty solid.