Sunday, April 13, 2014

titles on a megaphone

piercing is by far.

ryu draws me in like manga but in a web manga never could deliver. i like ryu better than "no, the other murakami!" haruki still delivers on the wind-up bird chronicle. i never knew i could tolerate a book in that plodding style. the worst part was when i was so enthtralled I was leaving all my other books strewn by my bed and on my bookshelf by the door for on-the-fly fabulousness. i was translating into the rich descriptive because surely his style wasn't to plod but to shift from description to description. so i took what seemed to be missing and it peaked mossy with everything. stark to dripping. after a while you're waking up here and there. bundled by the silence. hunting within the bunting, so to speak.

page 378 segued into 479.

i was loading the furnace with logs of fury. stoking and stewing. i love that it was the zenith of my reading experiences ever. i had to argue and argue that throwing away a receipt for a book is totally normal after 3 months because the book's gonna be done with. but when you get to page 378 after months of dreading the worst prose and finally getting sucked in. the manager was totally like, shit, get her another copy!

so i was promptly embarrassed yesterday upon reading the first page of one flew over the cuckoo's nest. it was unbelievably racist and even if it's to prove insanity or exaggerate it...let me just say


that is the only version stronger than regardless. despite its clear reversibility and irreversible irreverence for strong stances, it's hung on with diamond-tipped claws. gonna sell for blood and deals in nothing else. so, with every ounce of indignance:


it is just the worst thing to read for me (django was easier to unchain. totally, i was in the ring. leo dicaprio is honestly a believable modern racist but he played a perfect parody of a blue-blooded true-bred dick. it didn't feel real as the actor but as the character.

that's a true sociopath right there. that is the mark of smarm.

buy it it as it comes, bye it as it goes.

reading it next to a cute guy who made it very clear after page two was just as rude and racist and I closed the book and shoved it...that he'd been reading over my shoulder! i. could've. died. this is not me! but oh, well, life saunters on.

so django was not so uncomfortable because if we all compared our seventh-grade fantasies they would not be grounded in reality and would dream up new ways to deal with adversaries. nobody's true fantasy would win hero of the year.

it's like, well. the oppressors must die. there must be as much bloodshed as possible.

the oppressors must be at their worst. violent, shitty, dumb and smart, and for all their own sets of insecurities, or (down the chain) even needs. my death or yours is always ultimate.

then, and only then, do we daydream that we must say that fatal

well, yes

i must reach the end of the world
unleash two barrels of absurdity and roll
out the streamers.

writers are the ultimate day dreamers.

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