Happy new year, ya'll.
Jan. 1st, 2006 03:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ffloSore. Muscles tight; alcohol in the bloodstream. Rich food in belly. Place a mess, but still better than it was yesterday.
Oh for a lover, just about now, who gives a good massage. Or, hell, a mere acquaintance who gives a good massage, and wants to give me one. I would so return the favor.
So here's a milestone, this new year.
I exist in parallel universes.
It's a sliding-doors-y schism man-that-really-messed-with-my-head thing. There's this other Starship Lisa-prise, see, and everybody's pretty much the same, except in this one some people have a moustache who don't in the other, the one we started out on. We all seem to've ended up on this one, unlike in the TV show, and in some ways it's actually better, even though you wouldn't think it with the moustaches. And it was always here anyway, even when I was ignorant of it, back in the before world. And a thought once thought cannot be unthought. So you have to end up in the moustached Songs of Experience reality, right?
You know. Wm Blake. No, not that actor who was a Li'l Rascal then Baretta then watered-down O.J.
I'm not drunk, btw. Tired and sore. Did I mention sore? Neck, feet. Back.
Remind me to write about my evolving relationship with my muscles. My musculature.
So wasn't there something in that episode of Star Trek, or another, in which somebody explains how the two things from the parallel realities can't meet in the same time and place or the fabric of spacetime will rip or explode and everything will cease to exist entirely? 'Cept that can't be right, cuz Regular Capt. Kirk actually physically wrestles with moustached Capt Kirk, doesn't he. Oh, but of course one of them's a stand-in for Shatner, so that's maybe why the universe doesn't implode upon itself.
Oh for a lover, just about now, who gives a good massage. Or, hell, a mere acquaintance who gives a good massage, and wants to give me one. I would so return the favor.
So here's a milestone, this new year.
I exist in parallel universes.
It's a sliding-doors-y schism man-that-really-messed-with-my-head thing. There's this other Starship Lisa-prise, see, and everybody's pretty much the same, except in this one some people have a moustache who don't in the other, the one we started out on. We all seem to've ended up on this one, unlike in the TV show, and in some ways it's actually better, even though you wouldn't think it with the moustaches. And it was always here anyway, even when I was ignorant of it, back in the before world. And a thought once thought cannot be unthought. So you have to end up in the moustached Songs of Experience reality, right?
You know. Wm Blake. No, not that actor who was a Li'l Rascal then Baretta then watered-down O.J.
I'm not drunk, btw. Tired and sore. Did I mention sore? Neck, feet. Back.
Remind me to write about my evolving relationship with my muscles. My musculature.
So wasn't there something in that episode of Star Trek, or another, in which somebody explains how the two things from the parallel realities can't meet in the same time and place or the fabric of spacetime will rip or explode and everything will cease to exist entirely? 'Cept that can't be right, cuz Regular Capt. Kirk actually physically wrestles with moustached Capt Kirk, doesn't he. Oh, but of course one of them's a stand-in for Shatner, so that's maybe why the universe doesn't implode upon itself.
no subject
Date: Jan. 2nd, 2006 12:22 am (UTC)I actually have a secret fondness for Paradise Lost. It's not the plot, so to speak. Started with a woman called Ellen I knew mainly from the laundry room. She was nuts for the work, and had memorized the first Milton-knows-how-many lines, which she would recite rapt in a way that was unabashedly goofy. That enthusiasm is a big part of what spurred me to read it, when it came time, with a heart open to the possibility of enjoyment.
What a freaky poetics it seems, to me, thinking of it now. The meticulously measured, rhymeless blank verse, in syntactic pretzels to squiggle yer gray matter. That's one way to skin a fish, I reckon.
Anyway, I'm a sucker for the invoking of a Muse. And they don't get much more pompously & self-importantly grand than that one.