Writing is fighting for your life, that’s what David Foster Wallace told me, and that, is some shit; this is one of the possible ideas that developed after recently speed-reading Infinite Jest, a technique I learned at Oberlin that didn’t help me with the classes, but did help me read for pleasure with superior speed, he was grappling with depression, he was using tennis as a mirror shining on your self-perceptions and how you believe you are being seen by those who see you, like Tom Robbins, Alistair Crowley and Ornette Coleman used the mirror that we call the moon to make magic. Otherwise, you are probably wasting your time, or maybe there is a greater process to it I should re-read it, it’s only the first read, or is it a labyrinth?
These things are the paradoxes that will continue as long as the paradoxical existence of my own does: RE-Phrase, why do I exist? There are initial questions that make everything under the sun fair game; in the end, what you understand is that a routine is the only way to accomplish something over a long period of time; many people find this through all kinds of channels, mine seem to be so very varied, but it’s not quite like that, I don’t think. Stanley Fish was writing about his on his NYT blog recently.
I just need space, and I realize that I’ve met people who make me feel like living, which means I’ve met the right people to die by, take the bullet, kick down the nightclub paparazzi like Kevin Costner did for Whitney.
Bobby Crosby probably listens to Pet Sounds; with a name and game like that he just
wasn’t born for these times.
Kevin Youkilis is reminding me of Matt Geiger in a big way.
Chris Andersen is a monster on the boards. I wonder if David Stern is scared of Crystal Meth, compared to traditional perfomance-enhancing drugs for professionals.
Kenyon Martin is Wario; Darius Miles is Waluigi.
I shudder to think of extending this in to dinosaur territory; Antoine Walker getting held up at gun point isn’t funny.
College was a playful tragicomedy, I suppose; kind of like that Unicorn’s album, “Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Dead?” They figured out a way to ask a question and get people bothered in a way that maybe led to some level of satisfaction, kind of like sex, yes it could be said that if you’re all alone and you’d rather not knock one out on your own, aka home run derby simulator, aka bowling, aka drinking, alias Bo Shanks, the good stuff.
I live in the middle of nowhere, that’s what I think, because the people are getting together over crazy false idols’ screaming prophets; these days, they’re just trying to rehash some computer age falsetto, it’s less impressive now than it would have been without all the digital advances,
you can’t fool all the people all the time, but maybe it’s nice to fool yourself sometimes with some friends. So the first album gets dropped one way or the other, the memories get put in to place for something, how you go about responding to your synaptic fibers dictates how you’ll strum it,
How come people are so quick to love Dilla's Gazillionear beat when Return of The Gangster had essentially the same loop almost 10 years ago. It all somehow relates, in my head, to a FREE DARKO POST.
also who you choose to surround yourself with in your new post-apocalyptic world; shit is starting to move so fast, you gotta stay focused on something or you’re gonna get the spinsies and pass out, this is why old people/a youthful John Lennon could be seen as sleeping a lot,
this also relates to what you do to make you tired, some construe this as work, others as self-destruction, others as an opportunity to get known.
Noise, Noise, Noise! The slow, broken march to one’s inevtiable end; that’s what Leonard Cohen said, others followed suit, in slightly more dramatic fashion.
