I hate my life. HATE IT.
Edit: I can't even remember what the hell this was about. The lack of food in this goddamnsonofabitch house probs.
P.S. I'm talking like the mafia this week.
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Rubaiyat Soho
"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!"
I'm already in love with this guy. He has this awesome handle on life, some massive grasp of unchanging fortune. It's pretty humbling when you realise it was written in the 19th century - even 200 years later most people still aren't capable of forming such coherent opinions. Rather than trying to battle life he embraced it, regardless of its frequent downfalls. He knew that however long he brooded it would not change life's inevitable outcome, so it's stupid to waste time wishing for something more.
One of my favourite stanzas in the whole poem - aside from those three - is this:
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
He's basically denying the physical existence of Paradise and Inferno, reasoning that Heaven and Hell are products of our own lifetime - how we face our mortality. At least that's how I interpret it, and it actually makes a shitload of sense if you think about it that way. Why spend your whole life according to the rules of an assumed higher power just in case there's something better on the other side when you can make the most of the present and know that it is real. Life isn't a theory, the afterlife is, so it makes sense that you should embrace one and keep the other at arm's length.
It's only ever when I'm at my most reflective that my dad decides to invade my train of thought with the loudest hairdryer ever invented. I'm not even joking, I'm haunted by the BaByliss Pro.
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!"
I'm already in love with this guy. He has this awesome handle on life, some massive grasp of unchanging fortune. It's pretty humbling when you realise it was written in the 19th century - even 200 years later most people still aren't capable of forming such coherent opinions. Rather than trying to battle life he embraced it, regardless of its frequent downfalls. He knew that however long he brooded it would not change life's inevitable outcome, so it's stupid to waste time wishing for something more.
One of my favourite stanzas in the whole poem - aside from those three - is this:
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
He's basically denying the physical existence of Paradise and Inferno, reasoning that Heaven and Hell are products of our own lifetime - how we face our mortality. At least that's how I interpret it, and it actually makes a shitload of sense if you think about it that way. Why spend your whole life according to the rules of an assumed higher power just in case there's something better on the other side when you can make the most of the present and know that it is real. Life isn't a theory, the afterlife is, so it makes sense that you should embrace one and keep the other at arm's length.
It's only ever when I'm at my most reflective that my dad decides to invade my train of thought with the loudest hairdryer ever invented. I'm not even joking, I'm haunted by the BaByliss Pro.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Monday, 6 July 2009
'Sup World
I'm back. Except this is less of a comeback and more of an I'm-bored-and-just-realised-that-I-started-a-blog-months-ago-and-haven't-yet-done-anything-with-it initiation into the world of the online journalista. So now I've reached my hyphen and words I just made up quota I can begin this shit.
So right now it's the summer holidays and I've spent most of my time attatched to the one and only Accutemp™ air conditioner I'll ever own. It's been nice, but now the rains are here and our relationship is waning. I've read 6 entire books and worked 35 hours in 3 days, things I feel will always be milestones in my already jam-packed full of awesomeness existence. It was the most fun I've ever had, and the whole time I was stuck behind that huge-for-no-reason bar I wished that I would never have to leave. That I would become fixed to the Bacardi soaked lino, able to immerse myself in the magic of the Jubilee Bar forever more.
My co-workers were a delight. There was this one dude, Anthony, oh how I willed him to never shut up about his amazing adventures in "The Living Room". He even had his own "bar blade" (which I assume is Living Room slang for unnecessary bottle opener) and could throw Smirnoff bottles around in fantastic and unbelievable ways - ways I didn't even know existed outside of a masters degree course in serving drinks to inebreated d-list celebrities in an otherwise unheard of drinking establishment - until he dropped them, which happened around once every 2 seconds. You can't argue with £5.75 an hour though, and believe me I didn't try. Or rather, believe me I have the confidence of a particularly harrowed shock victim and therefore wouldn't dare.
Here I am with the managers:
Anyway that's over now, and I have the drugs I found on the floor to prove it! Not really, I threw them in a bin. I didn't realise horse racing was an ecstacy-fuelled event.
So right now it's the summer holidays and I've spent most of my time attatched to the one and only Accutemp™ air conditioner I'll ever own. It's been nice, but now the rains are here and our relationship is waning. I've read 6 entire books and worked 35 hours in 3 days, things I feel will always be milestones in my already jam-packed full of awesomeness existence. It was the most fun I've ever had, and the whole time I was stuck behind that huge-for-no-reason bar I wished that I would never have to leave. That I would become fixed to the Bacardi soaked lino, able to immerse myself in the magic of the Jubilee Bar forever more.
My co-workers were a delight. There was this one dude, Anthony, oh how I willed him to never shut up about his amazing adventures in "The Living Room". He even had his own "bar blade" (which I assume is Living Room slang for unnecessary bottle opener) and could throw Smirnoff bottles around in fantastic and unbelievable ways - ways I didn't even know existed outside of a masters degree course in serving drinks to inebreated d-list celebrities in an otherwise unheard of drinking establishment - until he dropped them, which happened around once every 2 seconds. You can't argue with £5.75 an hour though, and believe me I didn't try. Or rather, believe me I have the confidence of a particularly harrowed shock victim and therefore wouldn't dare.
Here I am with the managers:
Anyway that's over now, and I have the drugs I found on the floor to prove it! Not really, I threw them in a bin. I didn't realise horse racing was an ecstacy-fuelled event.
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