Woke up this morning and realized I need to find new geometries of desire, refreshing cartographies of fantasies. The ache in my back is miraculously gone, as if it never tormented me for a day or two, to begin with. What a normal, healthy body can alter the sky's hue, tweak worlds of possibilities, cajole the mind to take flight, unfettered by physical limits and man-made rules.
Thought about a novel I have been wanting to read to compliment this gem of a book about dogs that Ver gifted me (thanks, Ver!), engrossed me while staying horizontal to give my archaic back a rest. I realized I have not actually finished A. Huxley's "Brave New World" and I can't find my copy. Figured it might be a good dessert after Orwell's "1984." I vaguely remember the blurb about people indulging in sex and drugs but never falling in love - so decadent and attractive. So anti-intellectual. So me. Got to find the book.
A few weeks ago, had this conversation about labels and identities and stereotypes. A friend talked about his various advocacies - I am pro-this, pro-that. Told him, I wanted to preserve my mildly militant spirit and would stick to the 'anti' prefix rather than 'pro', just for the heck of it. So I declared, I am anti-intellectual/ism.
Facing the world isn't exactly my strongest suit, getting out of bed hurriedly, not my favorite occupation. But I get my stride after a quick reflection/prayer/whatever. Today, this poem spoke to me. Entitled "Being Boring" by Wendy Cope. Here's the last verse:
I don't go to parties.
Thought about a novel I have been wanting to read to compliment this gem of a book about dogs that Ver gifted me (thanks, Ver!), engrossed me while staying horizontal to give my archaic back a rest. I realized I have not actually finished A. Huxley's "Brave New World" and I can't find my copy. Figured it might be a good dessert after Orwell's "1984." I vaguely remember the blurb about people indulging in sex and drugs but never falling in love - so decadent and attractive. So anti-intellectual. So me. Got to find the book.
A few weeks ago, had this conversation about labels and identities and stereotypes. A friend talked about his various advocacies - I am pro-this, pro-that. Told him, I wanted to preserve my mildly militant spirit and would stick to the 'anti' prefix rather than 'pro', just for the heck of it. So I declared, I am anti-intellectual/ism.
Facing the world isn't exactly my strongest suit, getting out of bed hurriedly, not my favorite occupation. But I get my stride after a quick reflection/prayer/whatever. Today, this poem spoke to me. Entitled "Being Boring" by Wendy Cope. Here's the last verse:
I don't go to parties.
Well, what are they for,
If you don't need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I've found a safe mooring,
I've just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.
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