Hiatus Hiatus

Solid poem:

Of course I tried to tell him
but he cranked his head
without an excuse.
I told him the sky chases
the sun
And he smiled and said:
'What's the use.'
I was feeling like a demon
again
So I said: 'But the ocean chases
the fish.'
This time he laughed
and said: 'Suppose the
strawberry were
pushed into a mountain.'
After that I knew the
war was on--
So we fought:
He said: 'The apple-cart like a
broomstick-angel
snaps & splinters
old dutch shoes.'
I said: 'Lightning will strike the old oak
and free the fumes!'
He said: 'Mad street with no name.'
I said: 'Bald killer! Bald killer! Bald killer!'
He said, getting real mad,
'Firestoves! Gas! Couch!'
I said, only smiling,
'I know God would turn back his head
if I sat quietly and thought.'
We ended by melting away,
hating the air!
Gregory Corso, 'Poets Hitchhiking Along the Highway'

Just thought I'd share that with you as I finally found an electronic copy of it.

I have just finished reading: an omnibus of William Hope Hodgson's work, including The House on the Borderland, The Boats of the Glen Carrig, The Night Land, and The Ghost Pirates. Spine-wibbling stuff. Not bad actually, though not quite up the the billing it's given in its blurb.

I have just started reading: Narcissus and Goldmund, by Hermann Hesse. Have no idea, really, what it's about yet.

My exam went reasonably well, and my project mark turned out to be twenty-five percent higher than I thought it would be, which was a nice surprise. Unfortunately I had very low expectations to begin with, so that doesn't mean I got one hundred and five percent or anything.

I have entirely, utterly, and completely finished working for the Child Support Agency. This statement accompanied by muted, soul-crushed celebrations.

On Monday night, I attended the 2003 Nocturnal Ball at Metropolis in town, with Max and a couple of friends. It was a gas. Had to wear a tuxedo, which I don't really enjoy, but at least others appreciated it. On the other hand, I spent a couple of days making a terrific mask for the event: a golden kingfisher mask which made me look like an alien. I shall treasure it always.

I am slightly melancholic about the fact I'm not going to Terracon. I hadn't really thought about it until recently, but it would've been fun to attend. Ah well, I suppose I may be alive and in the vicinity next year, so I can always head down then.

Today is not a good day. He clutches feebly at the hem of his jacket, fingers scrabbling in the damp dirt of the laneway, his right hand passing blindly over the satchel of papers at his side. The cold metal slides between his innards, separating membranes of flesh like buckwheat tofu, causing shivers. This initial chill is followed by a painful, stinging heat that spreads rapidly. The face that stares down on him with a mad look about it is attached to a head that is attached to an arm that is attached to the sword that is running him through. A pity. He would have liked to finish reading that novel at some point.