Looked out at the mountains to the East when I went to pick up the mail. They were cardboard cutouts. Purple and flat, extending across the horizon with jagged tops and a crooked spine. If the sun were on top of them they would burn and dissolve. If the sun were below them they would be shining and total. In fury the mountains died and in fury my feet slapped against the ground and the cold watery street around. I smiled.
What about the world we thought? What about it? What about the times that we spent drinking on patios. I thought about those things and it all came up un-answered. “I don’t really know how to sing anymore,” said Barnard. Barnard was a horrible singer and a terrible lover. Barnard didn’t know his voice from a pack of hens. He quaked when he should have crowed. And he was a menace to all the women around him. We all hated Barnard and that’s why I didn’t say anything when he asked me.
That’s really all there is to say about Barnard. He is pretty trivial otherwise. And not so much of a gallant figure in any respect. He is ever disappearing that Barnard.
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At this specific period I find it rather hard to finish something. Though I am not sure if it is because, 1. I am not applying myself hard enough. Or 2. because there seems to be some sort of presence adopted during the course of the semester that has become irritant and won’t go away. It isn’t annoying. It just forces time away from completing a product. If it’s a travesty then by all means, outrage should shake you. And you should spit that outrage out like a giant gelatinous goo from your mouth. Spilling forth a disgusting green. Didn’t you say you were outraged? Isn’t that outrage? You’d have to be a pussy to think no.
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warming up is always an incoherent mess of shite.
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