I've always found Joyce to be very inspiring, or at least the first 40 or so pages of Portrait Of The Artist, which is the only fraction of his work I've ever been able to slog through. But I kind of like the dreamy way he talked about his childhood even though it's nearly impossible to read, understand, or enjoy. That in mind, let's journey to the center of the me:
The TV gave forth its glowing glory, unspooling an unending stream of glorious gossamer goo. Cable had finally reached our middling hamlet, and I was only just beginning to understand its romantic and tactile potential. For I would soon chance upon Cinemax.
---
"Foul!" I cried, my reedy tween voice ringing out in the rippling heat above suburban summer tarmac. Quiet descends as nominal friends shake their sweaty heads. Basketball rules swim in my stay-inside mind. This calling and shaking and swimming lasts years, later I learn that never but never does one call fouls on himself, even if he's Catholic.
I feel like I can inspire a lot of children. See, I was a little outcast-y when I was a kid, but pretty soon I'll be an accomplished author, as long as some publisher finally sprouts a sack and buys one of these damn things. But so far it seems like they're all content to let little loser nerd kids just suffer without any inspiration, which is pretty fucked up.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
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