from: AN ADVANCED COURSE IN BEING LOST
Most things provide drastically less joy than advertised. Others provide, without notice or warning, far more happiness than seems possible, or even sensible. For example, here in my short-term room, why is it such a great Pleasure to have a plant that requires frequent watering?
An actual gaw-dang garret, it appears that this is now. The tragic poet routine is well in place. Now all I need do is write things of which almost no one can see the point. (To-do: buy vino tinto, F. Chauvenet, 1.5L, 84 pesos. Or 2?) In other news, it’s gorgeous up here, up countless stairs, with a view of rooftops, assorted domes, cathedral spire, the ocean even, if you lean out far enough over the railing…
Alcohol ought to be a MUCH better drug, don’t you think? Alcohol is like a girl who is popular, in a logging camp, because she is the only girl within 75 miles. (OK, so maybe I am just jealous.)
The pleasure of a spotlessly clean tile floor on a blazing afternoon, after I’ve swept and mopped it three times in a row. But why is it that I cannot imagine that any Hair I find is anything other than a pubic hair? Why is that? That hair could be from anywhere. It could be forehead hair, or ear hair, or the hair that grows around my eyes. But, no, I just can’t miss a chance to be prurient, to be embarrassing, a fact of which I am more than just slightly proud.
I need to come clean about something. The plant I mentioned, which I water often and enjoy so much, consists, in actuality, of 2 large round planters containing, along with a selection of succulents and ferns, a herbaceous perennial known as a pineapple plant, 1 in each planter and each with its own small pineapple. Actual pineapples. I think it is dishonest for me to write that I am overjoyed by watering and not admit that I am watering pineapples. This may well be a decisive piece of information. I suspect that my pineapples are, in fact, over-ripe, but I cannot bear to harvest them. I want them to go on doing their pineapple things for as long as pineappley possible.
WE BUY REMNANTS BY THE TRUCKLOAD!-- a window in Manhattan
An actual gaw-dang garret, it appears that this is now. The tragic poet routine is well in place. Now all I need do is write things of which almost no one can see the point. (To-do: buy vino tinto, F. Chauvenet, 1.5L, 84 pesos. Or 2?) In other news, it’s gorgeous up here, up countless stairs, with a view of rooftops, assorted domes, cathedral spire, the ocean even, if you lean out far enough over the railing…
Alcohol ought to be a MUCH better drug, don’t you think? Alcohol is like a girl who is popular, in a logging camp, because she is the only girl within 75 miles. (OK, so maybe I am just jealous.)
The pleasure of a spotlessly clean tile floor on a blazing afternoon, after I’ve swept and mopped it three times in a row. But why is it that I cannot imagine that any Hair I find is anything other than a pubic hair? Why is that? That hair could be from anywhere. It could be forehead hair, or ear hair, or the hair that grows around my eyes. But, no, I just can’t miss a chance to be prurient, to be embarrassing, a fact of which I am more than just slightly proud.
I need to come clean about something. The plant I mentioned, which I water often and enjoy so much, consists, in actuality, of 2 large round planters containing, along with a selection of succulents and ferns, a herbaceous perennial known as a pineapple plant, 1 in each planter and each with its own small pineapple. Actual pineapples. I think it is dishonest for me to write that I am overjoyed by watering and not admit that I am watering pineapples. This may well be a decisive piece of information. I suspect that my pineapples are, in fact, over-ripe, but I cannot bear to harvest them. I want them to go on doing their pineapple things for as long as pineappley possible.
