I wonder why I take such pride in the automatic workings of my body. I mean, is it such an achievement to breathe out after breathing in? to eat when hungry? to shit when I’m full of shit? How much skill do I need to behave like any other person, or for that matter, any animal on this planet? Some people will go all Sartre on me arse right about now, start jabbing me with their existential schticks. And right on cue, we’ll tumble into a meaningless discussion about meaning, and blah blah et ceterblah.
Not that I’m not sympathetic to existentialism. But I’ve been feeling lately that talking about philosophy is like talking about jazz (and who am I quoting here?), no matter what words I use, they wouldn’t capture the essence. There, I just dismissed 2500 years of thinking with one badly constructed sentence.
And if death is the punctuation to a life sentence, it definitely comes after a couple of misplaced colons. There I go, still talking shite.
Plagiarism or homage? Terrorist or freedom fighter? Conspiracy or paranoia?
spiral scratch
lights out .. . { angry samoans, back from samoa }
living proof .. . { cat power, the greatest }
i’m crazy ’bout my baby and my baby’s crazy ’bout me .. . { louis armstrong, satch plays fats }
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