March 2011: But they couldn’t take the ambrosia out of Tantalus’ mind.

by maddrunkgenius

‘There’s nothing funny about a cum rag… There isn’t.’

  • ‘What’s this for?’ his guardian angel asked, leaning over the edge of his shoulder to look down at the Asian woman churning a plastic stick inside his urethra for about five seconds that felt like an hour. A younger nurse stood behind her, presumably in case she had to testify that nothing inappropriate had gone on and no one had enjoyed it too much.
  • The Asian doctor had first asked an elementary friend of his to be the witness, not knowing her patient knew the nurse and forgetting it was a small town.
  • ‘Peace of mind,’ he explained in one long exhale to the small cherubic figure as the double-edge plastic spoon was once again removed, remarkably, it seemed, not dripping with blood.
  • ‘Oh,’ the little angel said, and wrinkled his nose.

My peephole is covered over with regret and in my vision is a dearth of all things good & joyful. My head buzzes with fever, not genius. My bones ache with disease, not desire. My heart thuds dull, stony, leaden; excitement is smashed beneath it. All the butterflies fell dead on their way to Mexico from my stomach.

  • So I am all sighs & sleep & why is it today and not last week, still? George Harrison doesn’t need my waa waa but he’s dead, too. And Fred Astaire, even Fred.

I don’t know if it’s too much sleep or the fever, but nothing makes sense in my brain anymore.

  • My sex drive is dead, along with all ambition for anything beyond going outside to get a hamburger. So far that’s been a failure, at least today. This is the first day a beer has sounded at all inviting, and I think I couldn’t finish a bottle. At least there’s books. And the days go later.

‘There is only one evil among men — ignorance; against this evil there is only one medicine — learning; but this medicine must be taken not by teaspoons but by the pail and 55-gallon drum.’ — Dmitry Pisarev

  •  ‘But of eyes-open evils there are many,’ she demurs, and to that I, ‘Well,’ cough, and awkward foot-stare.
  •  ——What can be broken should be broken.’ –Pisarev (1840-1868).
  • ——Quoted and handwritten by Lenin: ‘Break, beat up everything, beat and destroy! Everything that’s being broken is rubbish and has no right to life! What survives is good.’
  • ——Not bad for a man who never saw his 28th birthday.

On Lenin: ‘His aim: to save the world; his method: to blow it up.’ (Churchill, of course.)

I am done with the second edition of A History of Russia. Only took three months.

  • He: Guess you weren’t Russian through it. I imagine it was so good you had trouble Putin it down.
  • I really wasn’t Stalin! You can’t Trotsky right through it.
  • He: Well played old man. Did the book mention that Medvedev actually means cute little bear?
  • It’s a second edition book from that’s in its 10th now, so it stops in the late ’60s. Nothing interesting has happened since the fall of the USSR anyway.

But they couldn’t take the ambrosia out of Tantalus’ mind.

  • There once was a man who knew everything. Everything there was, everything there wasn’t, everything pass away, coming to be, and could be and have been. He saw himself and knew it all, and knew one day he’d meet another fellow just the same, and knew they’d be enemies.
  • The trouble for these two, who knew all everything, quantifiably and quantumly, was they saw every world with themselves in it and not, and every world that had no world at all, and every struggle where one had the upperhand and the other did, and neither did, and viewed them all with such perfect clarity, that knowing sufficed beyond and above experience, and when it came to actual antagonism, they couldn’t even bother to give one another a sneer after they’d seen all the myriad ways they’d eaten each other’s hearts and toasted at each other’s weddings.

‘You should,’ whispers the small dark bristly thing curled against my earlobe.
I ate a carrot instead.

I want a month ago.

  • Years don’t race ahead; they pile behind, only.
  • She: I want six months ago, actually

As the janitor said to the clockmaker, ‘I’m sorry I wasted your time.’

The infant said, ‘Please spare me, my Lord.’ But Saturn, with eyes steady & mind calm, did move aside her protesting hand & smiling reply, ‘Not even the marrow.’

I am all melancholy & want to text her & Facebook friend her, and I cant because that’s gay. 
Instead I listen to a man hit on his ex-stepmom for an hour. Unsuccessfully.

YECH! Still the stank of undigested feces moldering in the grave of unclean pants does cling to my olfactory memory tho even the sturdiest particles have long left my nasal hair. THANK GOD FOR BURNING HOUSES (and the antiseptic smoke that cleans me sinuses).

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, but the words are caught by the wind & carried off from the castle for which her words were intended.

  • It’s all cascaded; too many running down too far & quickly.