Me and Mr. Jones

“Yea, from the table of my memory
I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past
That youth and observation copied there,
And thy lovely heart all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter.”
(adapted from Hamlet)

Even cynical minds can appreciate the value of a love poem. Especially if it was borrowed from a meditation on revenge. Pleasure can come from everywhere, even pain, like the too tight pinch of a ripe purple nipple, or the wearing of jeans when short skirts are not an option.

I am one of those people you see on the bus, in the coffeeshop, walking down the street, reading Harry Potter. I am obsessed. My imagination has been pricked and it needs the fulfillment of tearing through these children’s masterpieces. Yes, I also enjoy the communal experience of reading such a popular text, one that people worldwide are reading and enjoying. But mostly, I just love it!

And I love it at the expense of everything else. Which, in my opinion, is exactly how a book should be loved.

The tension I feel from this, though, is generated from the two adjectives of the above quote: “good” books which feed the “master” spirit. If ever such a spirit existed, I am willing to assume that John Milton was/is one of these. So I am also sure that he knew what he was talking about. But as I spend my days (and nights, sigh…) gobbling up Harry Potter, I am curious if he would consider it as “good” as I do?

And by “good”, I am speaking in terms of value. The implicit, ambiguous, and un-definable state of worthiness assigned to works of fiction that separate the “literature” from the more “popular” works. Yes this is a pretentious musing, and equally contentious, but it still gives me pause because I have an immense love of the “aura” that surrounds “literature” (despite my actual tastes/distaste for the works themselves).

That being said, the times I have fallen head over heels, and spent my days, nights, and dreams reading a book–those books have either been some-kind-of sexual-novel (usually homoerotic), or, not really “literature”. Examples of the latter include Garfield comic books, Anne Rice Vampire chronicles, Sandman graphic novels, and Harry Potter.

Did these works all influence me? Yes. Did they have strong narrative and developed characters? Yes. Interesting perspectives on life? Surely. Fun to read? Definitely. Literary value? Um…

The discussion breaks down at this point, and transforms into a matter of opinion. Although I have championed many a work that has personal or fanciful appeal to me or my current life circumstances, I can objectively state that there are definite differences between a Faulkner novel and the latest Dan Brown release. Accessibility is an obvious one, but construction and technique is a close second. Although Oprah is leading a large portion of the world in an summer-long Faulkner odyssey, I feel like there are many who never touch the stuff because of its implicit challenges. Lately that group includes me, as I have stopped re-reading Sound and Fury in order to dive headfirst into The Half-Blood Prince (along with gazillions of others)…

The fun factor is plaguing me most, and has, in my opinion, immeasurably decreased my attention span and lead me to choose one book over another. I feel guilty because of this, as if I am inadvertently lowering the ranks of my spirit. An analogy would be a delightful trip to Taco Bell in lieu of the creation of a well-balanced and healthy meal. Am I giving my mind indigestion?

Some argue “That is a good book which is opened with expectation and closed with profit.” while others feel that “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.” Me, I’m not yet ready to say, but I’mma still read Harry Potter, regardless.

This lovely new google search, which brought someone to Tony, asks a couple tasty questions. The first, of a more prurient interest, is what was this person hoping to find? It isn’t as overtly sexual as some past searches (like, say, “tux fuck”), but the implied sexuality cannot be denied.
The second, only interesting to nerdy librarians, is how this search string was actually constructed? Why did they select the keywords that they did? “Dorm room” implies the scene of the crime, but was this the place the “speedos” became “wet”? Or, is this the final destination? Simply to dry out these skimpy suits, or perhaps to prolong their use? You know, now that I’ve asked the library-type question, I realize that they’re a little prurient, too. Oh, to be a dirty librarian. Isn’t it wonderful?

The fundamental building blocks of color. Simplicity. And the taste of a Superman ice cream cone.

I have associations with them all, but the only emporer is the emporer of ice cream. And yes, it tastes a lot like Vanilla, but it looks only like itself. And to me, this was always the point. Still is. Years later when my house burned down I needed something to help me create a new cohesion in my life. And I used a combination of blue, yellow, and red to piece it all together.

This being said, it is important to reflect on the fact that color is in the mind, not in the physical world.

Having recently posted a blog about losing control, German surveyed his surroundings. It was warm outside, and his body was covered in sweat. He was stretched out on the bed, which was covered in puffy white linens. Cloud-like. He was clutching himself in his hand, but suddenly let go.

The pleasures he had allowed himself that day needed to stop, because they were blocking any and all progress. Simple pleasures, reading, relaxing, remembering–the only problem was that he was becoming addicted to them all. The possibility of completing any simple task would soon be an impossibility if he didn’t take control. And so he did. He stood up, put himself together, and began with the smallest and easiest accomplishments he could muster, but soon they began to grow. And in one hour’s time he had cleaned up the house, prepared for lunch, and triumphed over inertia.

Yes, but whose? I spent the bulk of this past week postponing my educational requirements in order to indulge various impulses or fears. This would lead me to believe that I am in control. But that claim has no real support, so at the moment I am definitely open to suggestions. Obey…

There was a time when I did not fear a lot of things. I was oblivious. I confessed my love to my friends, I wrote endless stream-of-conciousness essays for my highschool literature classes, and I ran everywhere I went. Today I find myself censoring the things I want to say, procrastinating for fear that I am not intelligent enough to complete assignments, and carefully considering my next moves. Except for the street. I still often run blindly into traffic. I’m not sure why.

Eight hours of sleep, some coffee, and several items marked off of the growing “to do” list and I still feel like I’m bound up tightly. Something is boiling inside of me, the pressure, yet I cannot crack the shell. “I’m becoming less defined / As days go by / Fading away / Well you might say / I’m losing focus / Kinda drifting into the abstract / In terms of how I see myself…”

My mood is confrontational, but it is also inward. The only expression so far has been my undershirt with horizontal stripes paired with the overshirt that features both diagonal and vertical stripes. The colors, widths, and general feel are all in opposition as well. I’m not so sure where this mood will lead me, but I’ll tell you one thing: Tony had better watch out.

You’re to blame
For wasted words of sad refrain
Oh let them take me where they may
Believe me when I say

I will be your accident if you will be my ambulance
And I will be your screech and crash if you will be my crutch and cast
And I will be your one more time if you will be my one last chance
oh fall for me