pop happiness

King me and I will bow down. I have finished reading Infinite Jest.

By no means by finished do I mean finished. There are pages still flapping non-sequentially in me, dog-ears, underlines, and side notes. It’s still positioning itself.

Two nights ago I saw Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. People will expect and say what they will. I say it’s fucking weird, differently from before the grape exploded in my palm. What. And by fucking weird I mean simply fucking weird. What. Clips of Johnny Depp’s made-up and blastedly insane face now shoot across my inner vision without permission, and that helio-androgynous voice, like flashbacks of halluci-lore.

When I returned home from the movie I went for a short run. It was dark, it was hot, it was humid. I brought my walkman playing the dungen CD that had arrived at my house the day before, the final CD of my recent buying binge. Smack, smack, I have stopped for now. I can’t get enough. I am pursuing happiness.

I ran in the circular neighborhood down the road, where there are no people but only big houses and sprinklers peeing. There were few lights and the music was so loud it distorted my vision. Depp Wonka Swedes replicant Oompas syllabic psychedelic lomping not in time with my feet hitting the sidewalk so loud my cheekbones spoke.

Those songs sung in Swedish make this listening much like listening to songs in English. My ears while they detect subtle presence of sound do not differentiate very well between sounds. Most verballing sounds like foreign language to me. Perhaps it was all those early childhood ear infections.

I am most impressed by the unconscious hilarity on Hal’s face, the distance. I press play and

this week is comprised of reading and finishing and reading. Baby farming, Spanish gypsies, kin terminology on Syros, The Cage of searching. The day is long and short, fast and slow.