I’m suppose to be working on a thing a friend asked me to write (an introduction his yearlong project) so instead I’m doing this. Mainly because this way I can get some clutter out of my head.
I’ve been trying to work my way through some big books. I finally got around to knocking Moby Dick off the list. Right now I’m reading Milton’s Paradise Lost, which I’m really slogging through, despite it being all… Paradise Lost. It’s got some cool sections, and great explanatory notes. It’s just super high falutin. But I will read anything with a speech inspired, dedicated or by Satan. Mostly I’m reading East of Eden by some Steinbeck character. It features some great stuff, but it’s not a subtle book and like Light in August, it very much reminds me of a telenovela. After a couple of recommendations I’m going to attempt to go back to reading some non fiction stuff. Take another crack at the stack of philosophy books I got stacked up. Not that I’m not reading nonfiction. Year of Magical Thinking and Here’s the Kicker are recent stand outs.
People have been coming into the store looking for white elephant gifts, and they say this to me! They say some variation, “I’m looking for a white elephant gift.” Fuck that. I know it’s suppose to be entertaining but the whole scheme seems dumb. If I were to give a crappy gift I’d would give someone a disease. “Drink this and then I’ll give your alabaster pachderm present,” then I would wait. “What you get me?” “I put zika in your drink! AHAHA. Merry xmas.” While I’m on it, what kind of gift is a drum solo, huh little drummer boy? What if it was instead of parapa pum pum, it was drattattattat-bch;aasktiiickwhattawhattazingwwhattazingcaasshhwobcasshhwobshad! dorddaadadthathatthatding, like Gene fucking Krupa or something? It would be an improvement. If I could get away with giving drum solos as gifts I’d remember more birthdays.
I had a dream/nightmare loosely based on the Lycaon/wild hunt stories a while back ago and I’ve had “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” Then a day or so ago I run into Pablo Neruda’s Walking around, which starts with, “It happens that I am tired of being a man.” How fun