Simply clips from Great Jones Street that I admire a lot. Couldn't think of any remark other than "wow".
I knew Azarian would assume leadership of the band, his body being prettiest.
There was soup to eat when the old stove worked. Things functioned sporadically; other things functioned all the time but never to full effect.
The little radio made its noises, fierce as a baby, never listening to itself.
An infinite number of monkeys is put to work at an infinite number of typewriters and eventually one of them reproduces a great work of literature. In what language
I don’t know. But what about an infinite number of writers in an infinite number of cages? Would they make one monkey sound? One genuine chimp noise? Would they eventually swing by their toes from an infinite number of monkey bars? Would they shit monkey shit?
I’m the one who works. I want my money to sit quietly. That’s my idea of the value of money. While I work and sweat, I want to think of my money resting in a cool steel-paneled room. It’s stacked in green stacks, very placid and cool, resting up.
People who travel a great deal lose their souls at some point. All these lost souls are up there in the ozone. They get emitted from jet aircraft along with the well-known noxious chemicals. There’s a soul belt up there.
This professorship deals with events that almost took place, events that definitely took place but remained unseen and unremarked on, like the action of bacteria or the rising and falling of mountain ranges, and events that probably took place but were definitely not chronicled.
I thought of all the inner organs in the room, considered apart from the people they belonged to. For the moment of thought we seemed a convocation of martyrs, visible behind our skin. The room was a cell in a mystical painting, full of divine kidneys, lungs aloft in smoke, entrails gleaming, bladders simmering in painless fire. This was a madman’s truth, to paint us as sacs and flaming lariats, nearly godly in out light, perishable but never ending.
Live strawberries instead of strawberries on tape.
Suicide was nearer to me than my own big toe.
I’m luggage. By choice, inclination and occupation. What am I if I’m not luggage? I open myself up, insert some very costly items and then close up again and get transported to a timeless land.
Let the stress of trying to live determine how you die.
I’d be happy to consume the dregs from an old cup that’s just lying around unwashed.
I began to feel that the bed was having a dream and that the dream was me.
Stand there and move your lips. Don’t think of it as a performance. Think of it as an appearance.
You betray a friend and then you brag about it. That’s star quality. That gives you stature.
The perfect suicide is when people know you’re dead on one level but refuse to accept it on a deeper level.
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