I don't bother with it, myself. And I'd advise you, whomevr, to forget about it as soon as. Yes, ye-, that sounds like some dreary hangover of Addle Essence™ — so says you, I'm off (you'll see) —, but, and this is whilst, yes, accepting that as an unavoidable Factor (I'm nothing if not naked), there's much to be said for being a little normless here and there — within reason; much to be said for slumping to the floor with another, hearing I'd walk on my hands through the jungle. Not being pricked by pressing logistic or looming troubls, or little engagements — that's what I'm meaning. Clumping about with no aim or destiny, just steps, not even steady. Howver: don't mistake me for suggesting you go all McGoohan and dash about in liberal triumph, subsisting only by virtue of your indulgence — not 'nless you're similarly prisoned, that is. Nor do I suggest we're caged by institution (ergh). I have the firmest respect for sizzleisation, truly I do. But living in it is no more phlosophical than taking care of bees-knees, you dig? It need not obscure your view. Besides, no law 'gainst slumping. It's too high to get over (yeah yeah), too low to get under (yeah yeah).
And I looked: hair attractively framing face, a small one. And like clockwork I screwed up my mouth, achingly. Then away, appearing to concentrate on something intangible. Complete conceit, mind. Even added a Thinker fist. (This is an example, by the, not a whim.) And gazing backwards to every other face that had stuck, and combing my hair with my fingers and yawning often. Catch me now: coat casually open, cap poised (still wearing it? Yes, you know, till my hair grows and that. Plus winter, you know), that look. Nothing so unusual. Nothing that'd tear open the fabric of sosososososo— sorry, can't say it. So plain, in fact, that the above conjecture seems more a foil for something far less, shall we say, romantic, something, gape, vulnebubble. That's partially the point of the example; I don't mean to deny my namesakemanity — not even to make a point. Well: my grandmother was face down in her breakfast again. I called the nurse. She smiled somehow. Mopping my grandmother's face, she even contributed to a blossoming discussion about that Canadian folk duo. I wondered what was worse: having to wipe someone else's arse, or having to have your arse wiped by someone else? She frowned at my candour, then considered. Good God, she said, realising, I hope I don't get to compare those first-hand. Laughing, I wondered if my grandmother had been dead all these weeks. It hardly seemed to make a difference. You're a vegetable (you're a vegetable). You're a vegetable.
Twosome: falling pointlessly against walls, lying in company, walking nowhere: that's where you think about it all with the right gravity, not to mention lightness. No 'free spirit' troping or blind hedoning; rather, feeling like a good dream, to no detriment to sosososososo— Not taking for granted the ability to eat a good breakfast. No? (Yeah yeah.)
Her - I was frustrated to find David Stratton's review of 2013's *Her* behind The Australian's crummy paywall, but we know from The Age's movie listings that h...
6 months ago