"Actually, if you substitute apples and pencils for Jesus and hamsters, and aliens and big hats for von Mises and classical liberalism, I think you have Clint’s breakdown of economic theory."
She feels like a slut in the morning. He wakes up and she hates him because she loves him, and he can’t even open his eyes. She covers his face with a pillow. When he chokes awake, she pulls the pillow off and laughs, “It’s a joke.” He takes his first breath for a minute and then slaps her. She flies into a rage, pounding his chest. He jumps out of bed naked and wonders what the fuck happened last night. He has no idea where he is. He stares at this girl he doesn’t even remember meeting. She is crying on the sunlit bed. She wails into his pillow, “You abused me!” He covers his balls with his hands and says, “What the fuck is going on!”
Why are the English so good at selling our musical heritage back to us?
All day, yesterday, after hearing of Robin William’s death, I wanted to say something. I thought of going personal, draw water from by own well of sorrow, but I couldn’t, even though it happened the day before today, the first of my older sister’s birthdays, where she is gone from the universe.
Russel Brand wrote today: “His manager Larry Bresner told me that when Robin was asked by a German journalist on a press junket why the Germans had a reputation for humourlessness that Williams replied, ‘Because you killed all the funny people.’ “
“Because you killed all the funny people.” It’s actually a fairly well understood insight. The Pythons tell an amusing anecdote of being asked to come to Germany and write an entire Monty episode to be translated and performed (phonetically) in German. They say they were told, by way of explaining why the German TV execs wanted this: “We Germans are not funny, we hear you are funny.” When the Pythons arrived, they were put on a train, a long, rambling ride, that then switched to car and finally asking for directions. They had no idea where they were going until they arrived. Do you know where they arrived? Dachau. First place they were taken.
I’ve relayed this story many times since I saw it because it says so well what happens when laughter is crippled and killed. The Pythons were these extremely educated guys who quite joyfully seized any sort of silliness they could find. A lot of comedy comes from recognizing how painful life can be and disarming it with humor. A lot of comedians are disarming their own pain at first and then doing the same for others. The universe is made of many balances. Some people are awash in silliness because they are awash in pain. Sometimes there is never enough silliness to disarm the pain.
When something like this happens, we want a cause, maybe a bad childhood or a trauma or facing failure or ruin. With some people, it’s just that something is broken up there, the mouse won’t wind properly. In the depth of a depressive episode, its not simply they are depressed, they are literally unable to rationally judge the value of their lives and the consequences of their deaths. No amount of money or success can convince them in that moment that they have any value. They can get through that moment a thousand times, but it only takes one failure. It is often relatively quick and completely unexpected. The whole reason why we find our selves crying with laughter at some comic is because he or she is telling the truth, from a sharp examination of the world. As we all know, looking too closely at things can be immensely painful. The examined life is rarely flowers and a box of candy. We love those who can take the pistol from our hands with a laugh, we can forget they just might put it in their own mouth. Thank God they are with us for however long we have them.
It’s a road, not a country, you figure out as you go along. I’m the asshole who ends up a friend. This is good. You get the lay of the land after a while. Stop looking for the last page.
Terry Brooks (via l-e-i-n-t-h)
Oh, fuck you. You ever see Stranger than Fiction, where the author is trying to figure out how to kill Harold Crick? You can have a good idea of where you are going, but sometimes you just don’t know what that will look like until you get there. I don’t work with outlines because the most amazing shit is the unplanned. That also means periods where I don’t write. Where I’m depressed and blocked.
When people say, “You’ll think less of me when I tell you this,” then they tell you and you don’t. It’s often the thing said in passing that makes you think less of them.
The Buddha teaches that all creatures great and small carry an essential nature which has the potential for enlightenment.
But, seriously, fuck mosquitoes.
I have a pot of water from my last leaf of my grandmother’s sansevieria. My understanding is that if you put it in a pot of water long enough, perhaps around the time the sun becomes a red giant, the thing will develop roots. So I look at it today, and there is a mosquito parked on the inside edge near the water. A second look and the water is squirming with its babies, possibly made out of the blood that little bitch stole from me. So I killed her children. I’m disappointed the cats had not murdered her before it got this far. Are mosquito mothers attentive, sticking by their babies?
What the fuck is going on with the Malaysian planes?
Because from birth is the mother’s voice, the Kingdom before we men are thrown out. We are simple apes. We just want to get back there. Voices of women remind us to stay alive.