Accidental Drawings: Control-Shift

Is it still vorticism if I am using archaic command line programming tools?

Self-Immolation

A day or two before completing Quim Monzo’s two-part novel Gasoline I told my friend how much I was enjoying it, how familiar it was to me, which she was surprised to hear because normally familiarity makes me feel unoriginal and depressed, but this was somehow different. I tried to explain that there was a frailty and honesty in the characters that was a welcome change from other instances of shared brain syndrome.

But then, upon reading the last few sentences where a character is describing what might be his first bout with insomnia, a strange thing happened within my brain. A tingle developed near my brain stem, followed by a sudden wave that surged through my brain and which I rode to the completion of the book. It felt like the reawakening and release of a stored train of thought, perhaps from my own first bout with insomnia. And the description was so on target and familiar that I wanted to throw the book across the street of the cafe I sat at and curse at it. I could feel the corners of my lips furl, my eyes narrow, and my eyebrow scowl as an unexpected rage surfaced from my mind. The feeling of familiarity was too much and it sparked an unexpected reaction from within.

After the smoke cleared, so to speak, I was sitting there quietly thinking to myself, how did Monzo do that? It is as if he was soaking me in gasoline and those last few sentences ignited me.

There was a young man on the television, he was on the verge of tears, saying that this was the most important thing in his life. You could clearly see and hear the passion he must have felt, I thought he was going to light himself on fire in protest. He was upset that basketball player Lebron James was leaving the Cleveland Cavaliers for the Miami Heat. The song, “We are the World”, was produced to raise funds for and awareness of the famine in Africa^wikipedia, Cleveland Cavalier fans sung a parody of this song in an effort to keep Lebron James in Cleveland. The late Manute Bol, another basketball player, spent all the money he earned from his 10 years in the NBA, and many say his life, trying to improve the conditions in Sudan.

I am just saying… and I’m not doing enough, or anything for that matter. I listen to songs on repeat for hours on end, but to what end? Familiarity with a sentiment at the cost of strangeness to the spectrum? Or to a severe crush on Julie Doiron, all you need is unattainable love, to paraphrase a pop group from the past.