Episode #452*

Some Republican did and/or said something stupid today.
He/she/it is stupid.












More Bush administration crimes came to light.
They suck, and they won't be punished.















It's tough, I know.

But chin up, little buckaroo! One year ago today I started this mediocre blog and here's my gift to you: some putrescent purple prose from my only piece of godawful, overwrought, melodramatic, nightmare-inducing fiction!

Oh.

You wanted wacky album covers instead?















"Patience, grasshopper. Wax on, wax off."
















"Crisp writing does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"
"A well-plotted story does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"
"Good characterization does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"

Given that stuff from that flick is about 180° from the junk below, one would assume I must be drunk for using it. But I'm not, so I don't know what the hell happened to my brain. Do you? I think I'll stick to poetry from now on. I promise. *cue conciliatory music* [what does conciliatory music sound like, an Afterschool Special soundtrack? That reference was lost on all you young types, wasn't it. You millennial wankers get all hot and bothered about Schoolhouse Rock and other assorted cultural artifacts from the 70s like Luke Skywalker hair and your parents were busy getting high behind the grade school gym when that shit was on the tube. Damn whipper snappers.]



[Anyway, for those that don't want to dirty their beautiful minds with the following crap, here's the short version: guy walks past a fancy library, sees a bunch of leaves caught in the wind, then runs to work. Yawn.]

I passed the entrance at no. 58 of the magnificent Imperiale Bibliothèque Nationale, its grand, black iron gates, lifted from some long-lost English gothic novel, allowing me passage those first two Saturdays in Paris to whittle away at my petrifying ennui in the brand new, frightfully welcoming beauty of the Salle de Travail – the theatre of centuries contained in her cast-iron supports, wrought-iron arches, glass roofs and tiled walls, and in her pages housed in that holy place, exquisitely lined upon shelves lorded over by grand scenes of natural joy, Beethoven’s sixth dramatically brought to life each moment in those rich murals of verdant green. I passed uncounted streets, the rues Rameau, Saint-Augustin, Saint-Marc and, rarest of all, some of the very few unmapped alleys that managed to avoid, through some ancient magic, the brutal hand of Haussmann, some clean, some filthy, all paved canals, blurred portals that led to the maze of buildings between myself and my destination, a vertical hex inscribed in stone, in the barrels of active chimneys, in the salt of the earth that laid its lugubrious curse upon every man, woman and child that dared defy the gods to live, work, play, struggle and die here. Even the ones whose flesh never starved, the aimless bodies that I passed on that treeless avenue, they suffered from malnourished spirits nonetheless. Those of us rare souls who had the prescience to recognize this condition could do nothing to save ourselves. Escape from this eternal spell was impossible.

Turning the corner sharply, I shunned going directly left onto the Boulevard Haussmann and paused, my gaze turning right, down the Boulevard Poissonnière and then above. Unfurled from the canopy of clouds, gentle streamers of light fluttered beneath, occasionally broken by the swirling breeze that made the tinted leaves dance to a Spanish guitar melody, unheard save by the dreamers. As I looked up that long street, as I caught the reflection of a man in a window staring back at me, I saw none but the crestfallen. Avoiding him as best I could, I watched those autumnal ornaments, when the air stopped to breathe, have a rest against the limestone, brick and glass, the first daubs of color on an unadorned fresco. After a moment, the air rose again, my sickness temporarily lifted, and the dance began anew; reds, their pulsing veins flush with delight, jumping far and wide; yellows, aglow like a field of daffodils in the sun, pirouetting around statuesque trees and through oranges, their spicy, perfumed steps rhythmically leaping to and fro, barely avoiding joining hands with stately browns that moved not to this tune, but to its own, a lilting waltz, their anxious hearts hiding underneath this poem to imaginary romance. This bewitching joie de vivre abruptly vanished when the whites came, the discarded papers of a wastrel, the garbage of this city, sallow below its artificial beauty. I looked upon the great hall my soul had just traversed, had just felt, the leaves lying as motionless as wallflowers, mastered by the memory of a someone lost long ago.

Leaving the busy intersection, I headed southwest on the Boulevard des Italiens, where, my wondrous reverie apparently over, vengeful discomfort reanimated itself. The shapeless faces of the crowd began to take form; an impression, an emotion, most of indifference; some of those I disliked; some who offended me with their blind allegiance to progress at the expense of truly living; others, those that I loved, those that had disappeared – all by my hand. I ran, miraculously managing to not collide with anyone or anything. I ran when I saw their faces now so clear, their open mouths straining to speak. I ran until I reached no. 15, inhaling with the seeming intent of forcing my lungs to burst out of my chest. Slowly regaining some degree of equilibrium, I calmly exhaled and unlocked the front door, going in to begin another day drowning within an ocean of words.


*oops, almost forgot the accompanying YouTube.