"monument construction"

"monument construction"

wearing a flannel shirt on a summer night.
cells shrieking for nicotine, brain for diversion.
paying for the whole week with gas money.
here, hide behind this brown glass wall...
on second thought, don't.
how will friday even happen?

"any more water on those wedges
and the whole block's a writeoff."

Thus I have heard:

Tonight MC Chris, MC Lars, and YTCracker played here in H-Town. I really wanted to go, but I didn't, partially because I had nobody to go with (not because nobody was interested, but because there were conflicts of the scheduling variety), partially because I didn't want to spend a ton of money- I wouldn't be content just to pay the cover, I woulda wanted to buy shirts and shit- and partially because I wanted to spend the evening relaxin' on the couch.

It's been a good evening. I spent much of it poking around a UNIX shell (bash, yo) and learning stuff, which has been one of my summer goals. Still, I wonder what I missed at the show. I bet YTCracker played some shit I would've gone nuts for, and I kind of wish I'd been there.

I wasn't. It's a shame, and a fact. If I wasn't listening to Nerd Life right now I doubt I'd feel as wistful as I do, but such is the case.

But wait, the music's changed: Ramones, It's Alive, track one, "Rockaway Beach." I bought this album fifteen years ago in Venezuela, and lost it on the bus within a week of purchase. My mood's changed. The transitory nature of everything has become all the more apparent.

All right!

Today is June 16th.

Today is June 16th.

It's been a productive summer so far. Thinking of each day as a potential landmark helps. Sometimes I forget to do so, but for the most part, despite any small-scale lapses and failures, it's been a useful approach to making the most of this most climatologically awful of seasons.

As always, apologies for the brevity, but I've got writing to do.

Tomorrow is June 17th.

eternity's yield

Eternity, no!
Who'd want that, even if
we get to spend it luxuriating
in the most refined of pleasures?
If nothing ages, nothing
deepens. I have no interest
in day after day after day
(to the nth power times
the nth power)
of childish appreciation of
phenomena, if all we're granted
is the ability to converse
about,
exclusively,
how cool
something is.
Better oblivion,
better Sheol,
better a haphazard scheme of return to
the mortal world for some vaguely just cause,
than an infinite stretch of acceptance
of nothing but the universe's finest
half-assery, for half-assery
is eternity's yield.
Better death, birth, flaking away,
the worst of senescence,
than the static lie.
How cool.