Monday, March 18, 2013

4199. RUNNING IT ON

RUNNING IT ON
You'll get the picture once the frame is finished and I send
along a diagram of the potential for the right development of
every line and scratch and dot. And I guarantee you'll never
have seen anything like it before : all those putrid revelers
scouring the street for nickels and dimes to drink with, well
this time they'll be green with envy. Had I ever crossed some
border before like this before, all that old horse-manure talk
would be gone: St. Patrick and all his serpents, all those
drunk monks at Lindisfarne saving civilization from ruin and
abandonment, and all those Irish lick-em-aid lasses running
their tresses over valley and gorge, they too would be so
over. We all now wear shoes like Dorothy did. We all now
treadle the yellow brick road. The faith of our fathers itself
hides now behind a curtain that only Toto can unveil. Toto,
as in All, as in Totality, as if every fucking thing that ever
was. And 'ain't that a slap in the face!' Someone once
wrote about the century being over, another century
anyway, about an 'old bitch gone in the teeth.' It's just
like that now. I have been to the forest, I have seen
every fallen tree and where they crashed, and seven
months on they all still are there where they fell.
In real life the world little changes. An old bitch,
gone in the teeth, with little bark left at all.

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