Friday, July 20, 2012

Deus ex machina

I'm reading East of Eden at the moment and what a cracking yarn it is.

I've documented before how it takes me an age and a half to finish any novel with an epic spread but I'm happily taking my time through this one, the book that Steinbeck called his best.

As I read, Adam Trask is busy building a paradise for his new wife Cathy, a being so malignant that she'd make the devil wince. She is evil incarnate.

I haven't even got to the good bit, but she's already done murder to some of those close to her (though she really gets close to nobody) and tried to...

No, I'll leave it at that.

Anyway, Adam is blind to all of this. Even as she tells him she'll leave him, she'll break him, she'll make complete shit of him, he is utterly rapt and believes her to be an angel sent from heaven.

I feel that way about my new iPhone.

Somewhere in the recesses of my skull I know that it will never feel for me the way that I feel for it, and it will ultimately destroy me, but I don't care. I can't stop holding it, and dropping it, and holding it again, and dropping it. It's a slippery little bastard, but the delights within!

Did you know that if you talk to it, it will talk back?

"I do not understand what you want me to do, Dave," says Siri to me as I chuckle back that my name isn't Dave, but it can call me whatever it likes.

My love.

It's a bit wrong and creepy but I'm best left alone in my idolatry until such a time as I raise my head, realising that the best resolution that can be found is in the real world, even if it doesn't provide instant nostalgia at the touch of a homebutton.

Not yet, though.

Give me today, and the guts of the next week, to marvel and discover what the rest of you copped on to four or five years.

I hope that herself will grant me leave to coddle another, have the patience while I blunder on about the prescience of Stanley Kubrick and be ready with a nice hug and a Viscount biscuit when the newness of it all wears off.

And the bill comes in.

Wednesday, July 04, 2012


Crippled. Crippled, I am, with back-gah.

They never say in the manual that bending down to pick up €1.90, for the bus trip into town, can result in a twinge so hostile that the air around oneself might turn cobalt.

They don't say that.

This was meant to be the good day, the one to bookend a series of days so full of efforts to improve one's station that it'd leave a man sleepless, restless, fretful, nervous.

It was meant to be a day of coffee, the couch and O Captain My Captain, but it's been sundered by shooting pains above the buttocks and the inability to stop third-personing oneself.

And repetition. The repetition. I'm like that terrible writer EL James that I keep scoffing so much about, though I've barely been able to read a sentence of her work.

This is not the good day, not the day of self indulgence I had greedily planned, but a Wednesday where I realise that the noise that old men make will happen to us all.