Friday, September 16, 2011

Radioactive Aardvark Nationality Domesticated Onslaught Metaphysical

Are you hungry? Are you sick? Are you begging for some bread? She lived with a broken man, a cracked polystyrene man.  I'm a creep.  Apparently it's called ergodic literature, and I kind of dig it, but at the same it's rather exasperating.  Maybe not exasperating.  Maybe tedious.  And sometimes it makes for a Day of Interest if you're up for it.  But sometimes I'm not feeling it, and I'm left following the sentence as it winds its way across pages, over commas and semi-colons, but never a period, and I get lost somewhere along the way.  Maybe you will, too.

Anthropomorphism, start!

She wasn't dead, but she was terminal.  Stop whispering!  She concocted a disease, a rather nasty one, that left her essentially brain dead.  Stop shouting!  At first I held out hope that she would recover, but she didn't, not even after she was supposedly healed.  She crawled, yes, and ticked idly, but she stopped responding and turned blue then black then the lights just winked out and I left her for dead.  I stole everything I could from her carcass, thanked her for being good, and then I went Kevorkian.  I'm a wicked child.

Anthropomorphism stop!

First degree murder is premeditated and planned and done willfully.  Second degree murder is not planned in advance.  Voluntary manslaughter is murder by accident, maybe, possibly, if your lawyer's good enough or you're sincere enough.  Involuntary manslaughter is purely unintentional.  Do not cry out or hit the alarm, you know we're friends 'til we die.  Suicide is self-murder, and can be rendered first degree, second, or manslaughter.  Either way you turn, I'll be there.  Open up your skull, I'll be there.

.wen sa doog sa (ylraen) s'ehs won dna ,yriaf doog a fo ecnatsissa eht htiw efil ot kcab thguorb saw ehS

See what I'm saying?  It's tedious, but once you throw in a mystery, a monster, a thing, a hope, a promise, a chance, a sanatorium, a disaster, an eleven-year old, a foray into foreign language, then you start seeing that there is a purpose to it all, that the ergos one does to understand is intentional and disorienting and disemboweling (okay, I just made up that last bit), and the format is important, as much as a format can be.

As per Demitri Martin, saying I'm sorry and I apologize is pretty much the same thing.  Unless you're at a funeral.  I love the cold snap.  I actually had to close the window last night and throw a quilt over us.  Even the curs were lazy from the cold.  Not-so-subtle-but-profoundly-strong-suggestion: Go to (here) and read Kij Johnson's astonishing ultra-short story (like it's totally less than a thousand words, probably more like 500[edit: according to MSWord it's 1,254 {that's MCCLIV to any of you Ancient Romans that are roaming the Nets here, or wayward seventh graders for that matter}]) called "Ponies."  Sit down.  Stand up.  Like, zomg that story was so gooood, and it's so fitting for the RIP challenge, and I really think you should read it and tell me what you think about it.  Reckoner, take me with you.

Life rolls like a Bob Dylan, o'er choppy seas and serene lakes.  All around me winds blow hard, but I myself am fine.  It sucks seeing others maltreated.  Anyone can play guitar.  (Nice Dream)  So I saw that Stephen King is releasing another Dark Tower book, this one called The Wind Through the Keyhole and set between Wizard and Glass and Wolves of the Calla.  I can't decide how I feel about this one.  Mostly indifference.  I quite enjoyed that series, but at the same time it was also lacking in parts, especially there as the ka-tet drew near the Tower.  Oy was one of my favorite characters.  Myxomatosis.  I may return to Mid-World, and I mayn't.

Anthropomorphism spoiler!
(It was the computer.  Being dead and now quickened.)

I'm the kind of person that pretty much always sits on my left leg whenever I fold one up beneath my bottom to sit.  For that matter, I almost always cross my left leg over my right.  It just feels wrong going the other way.  Remyxomatoxis.

The Well, it comes.  And with it renewal and hope, but not in us, but in He who made us.  A trip to the orchard tomorrow, where we'll steal apples from the trees and then pay for them, though probably the other way around, cause I don't want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart, and I don't really wanna get arrested, either, and I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over, and U don't have 2 be cool 2 rule my world.  I'm pretty sure someone has replaced my coffee creamer with another creamer of the same design and bottle; instead of the flavor I was expecting this morning (white mocha), I got something oddly reminiscent of banana, a flavor that's universally acknowledged to be deplorable and loathsome to God and man.  But I drink it, eyes darting, waiting to ensnare my assailant.  Ever vigilant!  Ex loganus.


David Wagner said...

Loganus, I am befuddled. As you no doubt intended, I was in turns intrigued and fascinated by this post. An interesting accumulation of layers, as effective on the second read-through as on the initial. I kept thinking, "I wonder what Logan will think about this post when (if?) he re-reads it again in, say, five years?"

I'll definitely go read that short story.

logankstewart said...

Yes, a post is indicative of a current phase of life (at least my posts are), and life is such a complex nature that sometimes stream-of-consciousness is the only way to truly capture a glimmer. Indeed, my good man, how will I react when (if?) I read this again in the future? A most excellent question...