17 May 2015

Mother's Day & other shit

Today I will share two missteps that I posted on the social network to celebrate Mother’s Day. I will clink them into the glass as if they were ice cubes. Then I will fill up the glass with corporate bonuses.

But first . . .

Here is an image that I am happy to relieve my laptop’s hard drive of having to preserve. I cannot remember why I would have saved such a thing, but I can’t deny that I named its file Polkadot Paperwrap.

Misstep

I stole a rib from St. Mark’s Jesus to create a character named Sarah and then wished myself a happy Mother’s Day here on Friendster by quoting a passage from my book that I wrote by hand.

Second misstep

Happy Mother’s Day to Jehovah, from Captain Ahab [Moby-Dick, Chapter CXIX: ‘The Candles,’ by Herman Melville]:

Oh, thou magnanimous! now do I glory in my genealogy. But thou art but my fiery father; my sweet mother, I know not. Oh, cruel! what hast thou done with her? There lies my puzzle; but thine is greater. Thou knowest not how came ye, hence callest thyself unbegotten; certainly knowest not thy beginning, hence callest thyself unbegun. I know that of me, which thou knowest not of thyself, oh, thou omnipotent. There is some unsuffusing thing beyond thee, thou clear spirit, to whom all thy eternity is but time, all thy creativeness mechanical.

And this is how my profile appeared on Facebook when I stole Thomas Heise’s cover photo:

Other shit

The woodenness that students think they perceive in ancient authors is due to the way that language and usage mutate over time. Today’s most casual remarks will seem pretentious and overwrought to the minds of futurity.

Like cleaning mud and grime off of a golden statue, you have to clear away the teachings of the priests as well as the difficulties that stem from foreign idioms, to get at the devious wisdom of the Bible.

Things that are too familiar, like certain parables or the works of any nation’s greatest poets, often benefit from being seen through a slightly distorted lens, like the lens of a new translation.

After I get my rap career off the ground, I plan on becoming a professional Secret Keeper and also a Dream Interpreter and Family Counselor. So I beg you: never refrain from telling me everything – for all that you can divulge will count towards my online internship, and I can list it as job experience during inquisitions.

Shit, cont.

Those who argue against the notion that “smart technology is making us dumb” evince the very deficiencies in acumen and articulacy that one might expect to observe if that notion were true.

I love to overhear things for which I am not the intended audience. My mind is inflamed by enigmas. The remarks for which I am the intended recipient are always boring and humdrum, like: “Bryan, you left your nylons in the freezer again.”

Three simple reasons I love Chafed Elbows (1966):

  1. Elsie Downey is a genius. As her credit says, she plays “all the girls” in the movie.
  2. The writing is GENUINELY absurd.
  3. Its editing stands up against (I would even say it TROUNCES) anything made in our easy non-linear age.

I don’t know the names of ultra-sophisticated gardening tools, but I can explain what I used during last evening’s soiree. It was like a big pair of scissors whose blades were longer than a grown woman’s forearms, and it had wooden handles that were soft and warm to the touch. When I searched for a way to describe this item, the database returned various photographs of mechanical devices that resembled baby chainsaws. This idea tickled me, so I lied about the name of the actual utensil. But I really did lop off the end of a towline, causing a streetcar to roll back into the pond. My reason for doing so was that I needed an example to bring to my local electronics store – I had to purchase a new cord with two male ends, so as to persuade my ancient laptop to communicate with Vanessa’s widescreen television. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.

P.S.

Tonight I dreamt that I seized control of Facebook and forced everyone to like me.

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