And how was your morning Atlanta?
Oct. 7th, 2004 02:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalon"'What sort of adventures?' I asked him, astonished. 'All sorts, Monsieur. Getting on the wrong train. Stopping in an unknown city. Losing your briefcase, being arrested by mistake, spending the night in prison. Monsieur, I believe the word adventure could be defined: an event out of ordinary without being necessarily extraordinary.'"
Jean-Paul Sartre
"Nausea"
Trying to wrap my head around Roland Barthes,"Writing degree zero" on the South bound MARTA this morning. I get the dichotomy between "Language" & "style" (I think) but can't quite get the grasp of this whole "escriture" thing. Meanwhile in the row of seats across from me some kid is rapping along to his headphone hip hop-"I'm a guerrila gorilla/ straight killer/ something something-coming for ya " You can hear the beat coming off the phones over his singing, some kind of Casio robot rhythm that reminds me of the way computers sounded in old Atomic age science fiction flicks.
I watch an old fat guy across from me plug up his free ear with his index figer and begin shout-talking into his cell phone-"No.No.No-God damn it no! It's in the E-Mail...wha..hold on!"
"Smokin' crill in the A.T.L./somethingsomething livin' hell"
"No-look your not listening.."
A flock of children in their pale blue school uniforms burst into a roar of laughter, which quickly dies down with self conscious side glances at the adults around them, they maintain however,the cruel smile that is unique to children, images of "village of the damned" superimpose over them.
"How many... I said how many times do I have to tell ... No... Listen to me .. how many times.."
Behind me some passed out commuter starts up with the snoring again. If I were too scrape a rusty knive on the sidewalk pavement, then remix it on my board at a slower tempo this is what'd you get. It synch's up with the throbbing pain shooting up my mummified broken arm. I close my eyes and breathe slowly.
"Lindbergh. The next stop is Lindbergh.Transfer here for.."
This is me. I get up and in doing so stumble at the trains braking, almost planting my face into the pole. The school kids snicker- little aryan monsters with cold blue eyes that can see no love- sizing me up with a smirk.
Todays headline flashes off a stray front page:"US Wrong on WMD's".
I catch a shot of leg from some career woman reading Dan Brown's "Angels & Demons". Blond bob and thick black glasses, short skirt and wearing white running shoes that contrast with her dark stockings, high heels poking out of a black leather hand bag. I return to the leg- a brief glimpse of a slow peace - I think of how in biblical hell the damned can see the blessed watching from the heights of heaven down on them. Maybe hell is like reality TV for the residents of heaven? I shake it off when the cab doors slide open, revealing my connecting train just departing. A chorus of curses ring down the platform from my fellow passengers.
I do the only thing left for me to do. I open the book-" style has always something crude about it: it is a form with no clear destination, the product of a thrust, not an intention, and, as it were, a vertical and lonely diemension of thought..."
Jean-Paul Sartre
"Nausea"
Trying to wrap my head around Roland Barthes,"Writing degree zero" on the South bound MARTA this morning. I get the dichotomy between "Language" & "style" (I think) but can't quite get the grasp of this whole "escriture" thing. Meanwhile in the row of seats across from me some kid is rapping along to his headphone hip hop-"I'm a guerrila gorilla/ straight killer/ something something-coming for ya " You can hear the beat coming off the phones over his singing, some kind of Casio robot rhythm that reminds me of the way computers sounded in old Atomic age science fiction flicks.
I watch an old fat guy across from me plug up his free ear with his index figer and begin shout-talking into his cell phone-"No.No.No-God damn it no! It's in the E-Mail...wha..hold on!"
"Smokin' crill in the A.T.L./somethingsomething livin' hell"
"No-look your not listening.."
A flock of children in their pale blue school uniforms burst into a roar of laughter, which quickly dies down with self conscious side glances at the adults around them, they maintain however,the cruel smile that is unique to children, images of "village of the damned" superimpose over them.
"How many... I said how many times do I have to tell ... No... Listen to me .. how many times.."
Behind me some passed out commuter starts up with the snoring again. If I were too scrape a rusty knive on the sidewalk pavement, then remix it on my board at a slower tempo this is what'd you get. It synch's up with the throbbing pain shooting up my mummified broken arm. I close my eyes and breathe slowly.
"Lindbergh. The next stop is Lindbergh.Transfer here for.."
This is me. I get up and in doing so stumble at the trains braking, almost planting my face into the pole. The school kids snicker- little aryan monsters with cold blue eyes that can see no love- sizing me up with a smirk.
Todays headline flashes off a stray front page:"US Wrong on WMD's".
I catch a shot of leg from some career woman reading Dan Brown's "Angels & Demons". Blond bob and thick black glasses, short skirt and wearing white running shoes that contrast with her dark stockings, high heels poking out of a black leather hand bag. I return to the leg- a brief glimpse of a slow peace - I think of how in biblical hell the damned can see the blessed watching from the heights of heaven down on them. Maybe hell is like reality TV for the residents of heaven? I shake it off when the cab doors slide open, revealing my connecting train just departing. A chorus of curses ring down the platform from my fellow passengers.
I do the only thing left for me to do. I open the book-" style has always something crude about it: it is a form with no clear destination, the product of a thrust, not an intention, and, as it were, a vertical and lonely diemension of thought..."
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no subject
on 2004-10-07 02:20 pm (UTC)Barthes, man...I don't know if I could read him on a subway.
Afraid some unruly structuralist will come rough me up or something.
no subject
on 2004-10-07 06:53 pm (UTC)