|but you guys do think that my girlfriend is good looking, right?
||[Jul. 20th, 2006|01:42 am]
no one of consequence
|||||also rain - french kicks||]|
on the bus from downtown to the beach there was a lady in pink. she must have been eighty, at least. she had bright pink hair with flowers in it, a matching pink dress, pink lips, pink nails, pink handbag, pink earings, and, in her shopping basket, there were boxes of pink kleenex.
in the wedges of her clear plastic heels a pair of goldfish were lazily floating in formaldehyde.
i was too intent on the goldfish to notice the midget in hornrimmed glasses who was standing on the seat beside me. 'permit me to ask you, sir' he asked in a squeaky voice, 'which of the human qualities do you value the most?'
'i haven't thought,' i said.
'i used to believe empathy,' he said, 'but i have recently moved over to compassion.'
'i'm glad to hear it.'
'permit me to ask you, sir? at which of the professions are you presently engaged?'
'i'm studying to be an archaeologist.'
'you amaze me, sir. i'm in that line of country myself.'
he was a sewer-rat. his friends would lower him, with a metal-detector, into the main sewer beneath the hotels of miami beach. there he would prospect for jewellery flushed, accidently, down the toilets.
'it is not, i can assure you, sir,' he said, 'an unrewarding occupation.'
i suppose we were the same, except he found his treasure every day he went out for it by dirtying himself, while i, by staying clean, condemned myself to a life of waiting for treasure.
in chilliwack a young, obviously misguided boy got on the bus and asked to share my seat. he didn't read, he didn't listen to music, he just sat and stared at the seat infront of him for the 7 hours to westbank.
being homeless has its benefits. if you walk down the street singing quietly to yourself, no one will think anything of it. it really upsets me that my enemies aren't destroying themselves as quickly as i would like.
'no, i don't think you understand,' replied the young artist, 'the bread is the boy's soul, and here it is being served to his family,' he pointed at the loaf of bread in the centre of his picture,'and you see, each one of the people in his life is taking a slice. they are eating his soul! don't you understand?'
my first real experience with other people's feelings occured when i was about 9. i was having my birthday party at crash crawley's (i was allowed such excess because i am an only child) and after the cardboard-like pizza, it was time for presents. my best friend presented me with the guess who game i use to impress girls with to this day, but i was so rushed that i barely had time to think. this put him into a deep sadness, he was always an emotional person. i learned of his unhappiness through my parents, so when he came over to my house a few days later, i suggested we play his game. 'but i thought you didn't like it?' and that was it. i wish it was always that easy.
to the arabian bedouin, hell is a sunlit sky and the sun is a strong, bony femail - mean, old and jealous of life - who shrivels the pastures and the skin of humans.
the moon, by contrast, is a lithe and energetic young man, who guards the nomad while he sleeps, guides him on night journeys, brings rains and distils the dew on plants. he has the misfortune to be married to the sun. he grows thin and wasted after a single night with her. it takes him a month to recover.