Saturday, January 31, 2009
Sam Cooke's voice is a dream. If you've never heard Sam Cooke sing, but you've woken up in the arms of the one you love, then you know the sound of his voice. If you've never heard Sam Cooke croon, but you've eaten the chocolate mousse at Tartine Bakery, you've heard him sing. If you haven't heard Sam Cooke, rejoice in this- life can easily get better.
Somehow, the Robitussin worked. It's become perfectly clear to me that I have absolutely no idea how the human body works. It's also pretty clear to me that beer, cigarettes, airplanes, and extreme temperature changes aren't any good for it. At least, not in my case. I'm proud of mine holding out a solid seven weeks. Way to go, body. Sorry I treated you like crap.
It's an incredible thing not to have to think about things like walking, or drinking, or shitting. And that's what it is. It's shitting. It's a foul, disgusting thing that we want out of our asses and out of our homes as quickly as possible. And the majority of the world seems to be wallowing in it. I sometimes wonder how direct the relationship is between the amount of shit that I've bought, the quickness with which shit leaves my home, and the amount of shit I've helped to cause the faceless mass that is the rest of the world. Kundera has a good bit about this, the shitting that is, in THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING. I'd prefer to underline that, but there doesn't seem to be the option here.
I talked to my grandfather today. Whole arm is black and blue, down to the wrist. He's cool. It's the blood thinner he's on. Anytime he's injured, he's black and blue to the bone. "That's the stuff you gotta deal with when you get old," he said. Normally he adds how much it sucks. Today he sounded resigned to it. Maybe that's the last thing to go. I'm still not sure what I'm more afraid of- the gradual loss of each of my faculties in old age, or death.
Instead of dwelling on all of that, I'm finally getting to work on a new series of pieces that are inspired by one I began for my sister about four years ago. I figure I should probably up the rate to more than one per decade if I'm going to get a show together.
Oh, and listening to Sam Cooke.
That and the steady rhythm of dissecting newspapers and running my fingers through glue puts my mind at ease.
The Robitussin doesn't hurt, either.