Sunday, August 22, 2010

Aphorisms, Reflections and Remembrances.

During a discussion about the alien features of babies, a white girl told me that , according to her father, she looked like Patrick Ewing when she was born. She had a dog whose name was Labron, but for some reason she changed it to Little Bitch. This girl was hilarious and bipolar. She also knew a great deal about New York regulations concerning pickles.
The signs on the road that warn of deer should not have a picture of a deer leaping. The picture should be of a deer looking dead at you, motionless. Because that is what those motorcyclist killing sons of bitches tend to do.
Remorse is often mistaken as a sign of goodness or recovered compassion. Perhaps it is an act of transformation, an effort by the remorseful to become someone worthy of praise. To live without remorse is to depart from humanity.
From the powerful and ruthless judge: Anything that exists without my knowledge exists without my consent.
I am prepared to accept the world in which humanity is medicated into its complacency. But first, grant me this wish: make a pill that stops my nose from itching whenever my hands are full.
Regarding the Silverstone WSBK races: The British should tear down Big Ben and put in its place marble statues in monument to Rea and Crutchlow. It should be patrolled by the British Royal Guard. Every morning, British people should kneel and pray in its direction. Once a year, all anglophone motorcycle riders should make a pilgrimage to it, where they can read the words inscribed on Crutchlows marble helmet: "That's riding. From now on, that's how you ride."
Sins, like infinity, are incapable of distance. You can’t run from them or leave them behind. That which is sloughed off will forever be in your corner. It is the same with all of the past.
Sobriety is not a burden anyone should bear.
Questions from the murderous priest: A genius or a lunatic? A general or a fugitive?
Sometimes I wonder how anyone could ever fear the dark. It has been my place of comfort for so long I am not even sure I can be seen in the light of day.
We had an apartment in nyc back in the day, me and the Dancer. Below us lived a police officer who took great offense to the sound of our footsteps. For our punishment, she would leave her radio playing quite loudly when she left for work at night.

Next door lived a drug dealer whose name was Freedom. At all times of the day, addicts would stand outside on the street calling his name. Probably the irony of an addict screaming for Freedom was lost on them.

Above us lived a couple and their children. The man verbally abused the woman constantly and on occasion I would go up to their door to ask if everything was okay. The man would always say everything was fine. So would the woman. I used to look into her eyes for a sign of some sort, wondering if maybe she was afraid to speak out in his presence. But her eyes were always empty, like the painted eyes on a doll.
Those who do not go to sleep to dream are resting up for difficulty.
Here is a comment on modernity, though I don’t know its content: A city girl in close proximity to a farm heard the distant moo of a cow and thought it was a cell phone going off.
From the great Kweli: Don’t push; you don’t know what’s up under my shirt.
From a Canadian sitcom about a theatre director and a ghost: If you can’t find your light, scream your lines from the shadows.
The other day, a message scribbled on the bathroom mirror of a tarnished coffee shop grabbed my attention, as though it was put there just for me to read. It said: "Listen to the soft machine."

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