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Jul. 8th, 2010 10:55 pmIs there any way to change the irritating heterosexual dating ads on my login to irritating homosexual ads?
Another hot night on which I remain unconvinced by Tennessee Williams. Convince me of his emotional truth. I want to be convinced. I have time. I can't go to sleep until the house cools down. I'm going to try sleeping downstairs on the couch, though my arising may startle any early-morning trampoline users outside the picture window. And you really should not startle someone on a trampoline.
Also, I ate a very large dinner of lamb, potato-and-kale mash, and a phantasmagorical birthday cake out of wonderland: a dense white cake in three layers joined by lemon curd and raspberries soaked in frangelico, with gory raspberries and apocalyptic chunks of pistachio brittle on top, bright green and gold shards like smashed concrete, laced with thick chocolate icing, coated with thin lemon icing, entirely impossible and delicious. What I mean to say is: I'm very full. So full that although I'm thirsty I don't really dare drink a glass of water.
Instead: I return to A Streetcar Named Desire.
I concede, invisible interlocutor, that Stanley's bestiality may be the point [SX 1: screaming cat, thump, rattle outside in the dark] -- that the emptiness of all three central characters may be the point. That we are supposed to con ourselves, like Stella does, into thinking there may be more to him, and to realize the emptiness of our own desiring response.
I, too, Tom, saw myself in Blanche. Not the faded beauty -- It is faded, my little share in beauty, and I am sad about that, but it wasn't the foundation of my happiness. The confabulation, though, the comfort of pretense, and the gradual onset of the knowledge that said pretense is spun finer and finer--that I recognize. I try not to lie to other people, but I lie to myself on principle. It's the best way to handle me.
{rf}
Another hot night on which I remain unconvinced by Tennessee Williams. Convince me of his emotional truth. I want to be convinced. I have time. I can't go to sleep until the house cools down. I'm going to try sleeping downstairs on the couch, though my arising may startle any early-morning trampoline users outside the picture window. And you really should not startle someone on a trampoline.
Also, I ate a very large dinner of lamb, potato-and-kale mash, and a phantasmagorical birthday cake out of wonderland: a dense white cake in three layers joined by lemon curd and raspberries soaked in frangelico, with gory raspberries and apocalyptic chunks of pistachio brittle on top, bright green and gold shards like smashed concrete, laced with thick chocolate icing, coated with thin lemon icing, entirely impossible and delicious. What I mean to say is: I'm very full. So full that although I'm thirsty I don't really dare drink a glass of water.
Instead: I return to A Streetcar Named Desire.
I concede, invisible interlocutor, that Stanley's bestiality may be the point [SX 1: screaming cat, thump, rattle outside in the dark] -- that the emptiness of all three central characters may be the point. That we are supposed to con ourselves, like Stella does, into thinking there may be more to him, and to realize the emptiness of our own desiring response.
I, too, Tom, saw myself in Blanche. Not the faded beauty -- It is faded, my little share in beauty, and I am sad about that, but it wasn't the foundation of my happiness. The confabulation, though, the comfort of pretense, and the gradual onset of the knowledge that said pretense is spun finer and finer--that I recognize. I try not to lie to other people, but I lie to myself on principle. It's the best way to handle me.
{rf}
