The devil is in the details.
Ive never been much on details. Well, at least those which mean little or nothing to me. The devil, well, if hes in those details Ive never met him though Ive often told myself that Id like to. I have, now and again, felt the little imp perched like a heroin-habit on my back (his hands clutched lightly around my throat are cold, despite conventional thermal wisdom) whispering sweet nothings in my ear like some nefarious, selfish lover; but Ive yet to come across his little red, blasphemous ass amidst the minutiae of rather boring odds and ends which seem so important to so many others here in the mundane.
Its just that mostimes I cant see the importance of shuffling office paper scrawled with hurried script or sitting around a liars table full of fools and expensive food, socially fencing with penises and accomplishments and mistresses or veiled insults. Ive never understood the value of ceremony or pomp and have had little cause to respect it over the years, though Ive been party to it more often than most. Ive never been much impressed by some guy waving a document under my nose and thinking it his special right to demand or decline or delegate or dictate (as in Hitler, not Aristotle) whatevers written on it. Ive always been confused at how or why a small piece of plastic with my name and graven image on it makes me one thing and the lack thereof makes me another. Im still me either way (whether I like it or not...and latelyI do), right? I suppose, loosely and true to form, you could say Im a generalist. Moment to moment and day to day, the details have always worked themselves out in a way, sometimes with less than optimal results, but for the most part pretty much like one would expect without all the stress and crossing of eyes and dotting of tees. For a boy with a habit of overthinking things, I pretty much go with wherever my sense of what next? takes me.
But then, there are situations and events where my attention drills down to a super-focus (locus) like a lazer light. The ceremony may mean little, the pomp may bring contempt, but the respect and admiration I sometimes feel for the guy in the coffin or the gal in the white dress jars me with its ardor. I will ruminate for days on the mysteries of soft sleeping lips or smooth flawless hips. Ill linger in the recesses of excesses, physically jarring my body with flashes of flawless clarity, terrible in its every halcyon aspect. Ill go sleepless for nights on end visualizing-----
---wait a minute. did i ever mention how amazingly adorably painfully everything i think this girl is.....?
i mean, come on, how am i supposed to concentrate here? hell.
-pb
book: practical demonkeeping, christopher moore
music: tom waits, real gone
Ive never been much on details. Well, at least those which mean little or nothing to me. The devil, well, if hes in those details Ive never met him though Ive often told myself that Id like to. I have, now and again, felt the little imp perched like a heroin-habit on my back (his hands clutched lightly around my throat are cold, despite conventional thermal wisdom) whispering sweet nothings in my ear like some nefarious, selfish lover; but Ive yet to come across his little red, blasphemous ass amidst the minutiae of rather boring odds and ends which seem so important to so many others here in the mundane.
Its just that mostimes I cant see the importance of shuffling office paper scrawled with hurried script or sitting around a liars table full of fools and expensive food, socially fencing with penises and accomplishments and mistresses or veiled insults. Ive never understood the value of ceremony or pomp and have had little cause to respect it over the years, though Ive been party to it more often than most. Ive never been much impressed by some guy waving a document under my nose and thinking it his special right to demand or decline or delegate or dictate (as in Hitler, not Aristotle) whatevers written on it. Ive always been confused at how or why a small piece of plastic with my name and graven image on it makes me one thing and the lack thereof makes me another. Im still me either way (whether I like it or not...and latelyI do), right? I suppose, loosely and true to form, you could say Im a generalist. Moment to moment and day to day, the details have always worked themselves out in a way, sometimes with less than optimal results, but for the most part pretty much like one would expect without all the stress and crossing of eyes and dotting of tees. For a boy with a habit of overthinking things, I pretty much go with wherever my sense of what next? takes me.
But then, there are situations and events where my attention drills down to a super-focus (locus) like a lazer light. The ceremony may mean little, the pomp may bring contempt, but the respect and admiration I sometimes feel for the guy in the coffin or the gal in the white dress jars me with its ardor. I will ruminate for days on the mysteries of soft sleeping lips or smooth flawless hips. Ill linger in the recesses of excesses, physically jarring my body with flashes of flawless clarity, terrible in its every halcyon aspect. Ill go sleepless for nights on end visualizing-----
---wait a minute. did i ever mention how amazingly adorably painfully everything i think this girl is.....?
i mean, come on, how am i supposed to concentrate here? hell.
-pb
book: practical demonkeeping, christopher moore
music: tom waits, real gone
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you should update your journal so I can read more of that writing I love so much...