Life, in a conk shell
2000-08-05 - 18:02:15
If you listen really hard, you can hear the ocean...unless you happen to be listening to a conk shell. In which case, you'll hear a soft 'conk, conk!'...who's there? Conk. Conk who? King Conk. What about King Conk? King Conk's Hell is a world without bananas or skyscrapers...but then again, you will always hear a 'conk, conk!', because there is a conk shell in your head. Two, actually. What is the cochlea, but a tiny conk shell deep inside the human head? And it just keeps saying 'conk'. 'Conk, conk, conk!'. Like a word that is said over and over until it seems different. That's what life is. Each day has the same number of seconds, minutes, hours. Try as you might, you cannot diverge from the person that you are meant to be, at that exact point in time. We have no choice, because physics rules over our persons, our personalities. There is now way out. I sit and cringe in the shadow of the oppression of the conk shell. 'Conk, conk, conk, conk!'
My word of the day is 'lucrative'.
(Pseudodefinition: An adjective describing all the moments that I seem to have lost.)
I went to a picnic today. They said there were going to be horsies. They said it would be funn. They were wrong. I went to church, on a Saturday. Or rather, I went to a churchie barbiecue. And they didn't even cue the barbies. Or barb the cuebies. Hot dogs. Chips. Soda. I ate my lunch in a nearby graveyard. Then a lady got up, and said she wanted to 'make us one' with music. She sung badly. Shatter-the-glass-and-snap-the-neck badly; I'm no musician, but she was tapping her foot VERY unrhythmically. Tappity-tap...tap...tappity, tappity. Her voice was like a skipping record, attempting to harmonize to her recording of herself playing some other tune on the piano. She was singing in the 'african american' tradition. I live in Maine. There is no 'african american' tradition. There's barely any 'african american'. And it's not like I'd notice if there were, even if there were. I only look at eyes. And toes. And there was a hog. I mean, a real oink-oink pig. It played instuments, and waddled around and grunted. What funn. I noticed that I really hate people that try to integrate people into their system by 'celebrating their differences'. I realized that people that resemble pigs grunt more than oink-oink pigs. I realized that graveyards are good for luncheons; I'll have to put one near my house when I grow up. Oh, and there were no horsies. Just a two-foot-tall pony with an oral fixation.
I got my hair cut today too. By the time I got there, I was more-and-less stupefied, and only communicated to the hair stylist with grunts and obscene 'body language'. I think they thought I was 'slow'. But who gives a rat's head, nest pas? (Come to think of it, no one gives rats head, or at least, I should hope they don't...)
