Oh bugger, I've been neglecting this, again. 'Cause I do that.
Anyway. More stream of consciousness type stuff... spawned after spending three hours agonizing over T.S. Eliot poems and research paper topics. Warning for mild profanity... and maturish themes, I guess. My mind at three thirty in the morning!! Yeah. Exciting to the max.
Oh yeah, and ignore my capitalization skills. I just decided at some point that they weren't remotely worth it.
Curled in your chest, you're walking down the street. Streets, as a rule, are straight. Not this street. Who heard of straight streets, anyway? Not in missoula. Straight streets are a dream, a vision, a phantasm from an imagination like that which birthed heaven... heaven has straight streets. But not missoula. Missoula is not heaven, no matter what anyone says. Look at its streets, and you'll know. God forbid you try to drive them. Especially without knowing where to go. If you try to drive the streets of missoula without at least a bit of foresight, or hindsight, or foreknowledge, or something, you'll quickly find yourself in hell. Missoula's streets were designed by a child eating spaghetti. By a man with a child eating spaghetti. Just the noodles..... those noodles fly over the edge of a high-chair, splat on the ground. By golly, I bet I could plan a city like that.... and you have missoula. digression is a bitch. anyway, you're walking down a street.
what the hell, no you're not. you're supposed to be writing a paper. that's what you're supposed to be doing. but your mind wanders. digression. digression is a bitch, doesn't listen. you can tell her to walk a straight line (her as in your thoughts... or wait. your thoughts should be a he, because that would fit the metaphore better). you tell HIM to walk a straight line but dammit, there's digression, the she, sauntering a bit over that way. and there he goes, because apparently digression wears a short skirt. what a bitch.
and you're still not writing your paper. it's about poetry. not about poetry, exactly. on poetry. how you can write a paper on anything has always been a bit beyond you. you don't write a paper on poetry... you write a paper on your table. that's logic. but it's a paper, so who the hell cares for logic, anyway? yeah, no one really. Poetry and the modernist woman. if the modernist woman had a name, it would be simpler. perhaps. the modernist woman -- sheila, catherine, diane, robin, nora, jenny, lavine -- should have a name. but she doesn't. thank God she's not lavine, because lavine is just a stupid name. if the modern woman is robin, the world's in for a ride. semi-literally. but you should probably lay off that allusion, because no one's read nightwood. there's really a good reason for that.
the modern woman. the modern woman is defined by what she is not. she is not the romantic woman. it's never any good to define someone by what they aren't, but it happens anyway. she's no good at golf. hell, if someone is actually good at golf it's probably because they have a complex. yeah. you said it. you who is I, because you is seriously difficult to write at three thirty in the morning. but who sleeps anyway? normal people. by normal I mean lame. and by lame I mean people with any sort of intelligence at all. and by people with any sort of intelligence at all, I mean anyone who isn't me. because I don't sleep. that's called progression, who is the sick sister of digression. they have the same last name, you see, although I'm fairly sure that one of them is a bastard while the other is a bitch. perhaps they're both bastards. since no one really pays attention to the fact that a girl can be a bastard child, too. who are their parents? no one knows, duh. they're bastards. the bastard and the bitch.
progression wears pants, because thoughts are supposed to go one way. digression is the one that tugs on her hand and drags her down the path to... hell. or someplace. to missoula, because hell, I miss that twisted place. like a fat kid misses cake on atkins. diets always sound like a drug. you're on it. like a drug. like the table your paper is supposed to be on. how the hell did I get back to your, anyway? I thought I dropped that. I did. that damn you just sneaks back in there.
holy hell, there she goes again.
digression is a woman.
but not a modern woman, because digression isn't.... stale.
If digression is a woman, what does that mean for me, as a woman?
but of course, personification never works out quite the way that you wanted it to. missoula's streets were never meant to be spaghetti. but of course that has absolutely nothing to do with personification, so I'll leave that trail and go back to where I was supposed to be. where that is, I can't ever remember, anylonger. I think I might have wandered too far.
panic. that's where this was going. papers cause panic. missoula's streets cause panic. missoula's streets practically ARE panic. that they are. I'm sure at least two or more of them SPELL panic, if you were to look down at missoula from the sky. I'm sure God finds that hillarious. not panic at the disco. or at frisco. at missoula. which doesn't rhyme, and totally screws the beauty that was supposed to be that sentence three ways from tuesday.
missoula is not a beautiful word. a beautiful town, with semi-beautful people. they're kind've dirty, but that's just because they're really, really in touch with nature in missoula. and the people who aren't really, really in touch with nature in missoula are really just pretending. they go home and lay in the dirt like the rest of us.
missoula isn't bad. or maybe it's that it's so bad it's good. you can folf in missoula. because apparently folf is a missoula word. you say folf anywhere else and people are like wtf are you talking about, you crazy montanan? yeah. you know it's late when you interject chatspeak into normal conversation. which this isn't, but there's not really that much difference, since this is mostly just a conversation with myself. a glimpse of me how most people probably never actually wanted to see me. my mind's formatted after the streets I grew up driving, I guess. spaghetti-streets. missoula streets. missoula grows on you.
or grows in you.
this kind of thing is what causes panic, really. swift topic change, but sometimes you can't type out all of the thoughts, because apparently thoughts move faster than light, or at least faster than my fingers, and some of those thoughts just aren't going to make it to the page. which is most likely for the good of us all. us all as in me. I'm not going to let that one progress, because my thoughts all stop with me. how handy.
digression is at the root of most panic. panic because you've spent three weeks reading books that weren't about your topic, listening to music that wasn't stravinsky, who it turns out you're not going to write about anyway so it doesn't really matter. how handy. watching movies that had nothing to do with anything, least of all the modernist woman. modernist woman or modern woman? why does it matter? because if the modernist woman is the modern woman, then I'm actually a post-modern woman, and that just sounds ridiculous. like most labels.
woman is a label. yes?
everything is labeled. psychology drives labelling. I'm not sure why, but it does. if you're a pessimist, you're more likely to be depressed and die sooner. that's what psychology does to you. it informs you that since you're this one type of person, you have an excess amount of problems, and therefore are more likely to lodge a bullet in your cranium at some point in your life. but really, why aren't optimists more depressed? there's so much more disappointment when you're eternally optimistic. because contrary to optimistic belief, you can't win a game of chess with a pawn and a king.