2005 01 16
Walking another street I realize I’ll never know the moment of, will never remember, the joy of music caught from a one of the oldest English speaking churches in Germany. Evangelizing. The people of Africa, my people. Singing and joyous. Praising. The true spirit of Christ, of something Christian. Right in the middle of good ol’ Germania.
Idear: what was special in D. Hoffman movie w/ the car? Was it the Graduate car? Or was it something else according to the movie writers (if there were any)? Plastics. Plasitcs is what it was about. Plastics, since its invention, is the quick fix, the easy product, profitable and, most importantly, a by-product of oil. Plastic is the drive-in temple. The place and/or product where do many get the info telling them what to think and telling you how to live life better when you should be learning such a thing from… Yes. The convenience society. Its beginning. Origin. Plastic is the metaphor for so much more. There’s also boil-in-a-bag, quick frozen or freeze-dried. Where when will it all end?
Get list of books, novels, plays that “America” has tried to ban. What would the list look like in the form of tablets written by (a/the) god?
Don’t think I could write a picture of (a/the/my) perfect woman. Why is that? Because I know there is no perfection—at least not in human females. Or is there? How does one write (down) what beauty is? Answer: beauty is symmetry. Write well. Or. Step outside yourself, Mr. Worst. Find a girl with dirty-blond hair, mid-shoulder length, bundled into a ball at the back of her skull, the true (colored) hair underneath it fuzzing/buzzing around the top of her neck. She wears a blue t-shirt with a v-neck collar stretched so wide it barely hangs on her shoulders. There is a silver chain dangling from her neck. The chain is somehow connected to the top of the shirt to hold it from falling to oblivion. Her hair has silver strips that would, if allowed, glisten with dark (brown) eyes. But they look away so often. Probably because so many other eyes try to grasp her. The bottom of her shirt begins and ends at her navel only relieved by the blue painted jeans that hug baby-fat protruding from the top edges, just above a belt line. From behind she is a discolored lava lamp, bulbous shaped cake of candy perfectly decorated by twenty-four years of turning heads.
The reason man doesn’t learn from the past? Unlike animals, man doesn’t seem able to change his physiology to fit nature. Perhaps there is no need to do so. Perhaps he, in the context of time, he is to new, so-much-so his (her) unatested-ness simply cannot bring forth the natural change required.
Correlation between guilt and sin.
The comfort Ameirca has bad through the cold war is the simple reason that we define our own reality—as the reality of the rest (of the world). We are the opposite of what we ultimately don’t understand. That may well be our doom.
Oh. About that perfect girl thing (above). Although the colors match, the texture too, her ear-rings jingle with the bar light and contrast with her dull lipstick that is anti-red.
The art of drinking an Irish Stout. The art of love according to an ancient Irishman. An Irish boxer wanting to give up the violence and start a career in music. He wants to sing American country music but can’t get rid of his accent.
A woman and her jewelry, or lack thereof. A woman always wears jewelry. Because jewelry is not some metal, stone, refuge of a sea crustacean. No. It is her hair, her ear (lobes), the tip of her nostrils, the ring finger, the cleft around her vulva like the crease under the backside of her ear and if she knew or felt any of that between the penal pounding she must endure matrimonial confusion then she would awaken and steer toward the cry of Lysistrata and welcome the long needed pause…