Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
Last night there was a paper cup rolling around on the floor at the back of the bus, for a good fifteen minutes. On his way out the man sitting in the back row picked up the cup and set it upright on the floor in front of the seat closest to the door.
On the bus, in the morning, an old woman had a long conversation with the couple sitting next to her. Their names were Virginia and Cleveland.
There is a joke in there somewhere.
'I can't wait until I'm old enough to feel ways about stuff.'
The more I listen to 'New San Antonio Rose', the more I wonder what I'm missing out on by not knowing what's new about it.
First thoughts upon waking up this morning: Frank Sobotka working a shift on someone else's union card, Frank Sobotka turning up in the harbor.
No significant thoughts followed - just a feeling of unease.
'mock mockers after that'
'At the same time, another force prowls the edge of the field, bitterly observing that a table is that which supports a meal, a text one is reading, and the lamp one reads it by; that people have been born, have fucked, and have been laid out to die on tables; and that this observation makes the very use of the example appear silly, and the contention of the two schools seems as frighteningly frivolous as a formal tea party going on while the enemy mines the garden and the servants sell the house itself, piece by piece.'