by Anne Sexton
The end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute’s speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a woman takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today’s paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Anne Sexton, “The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator” from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981). Copyright © 1981 by Linda Gray Sexton and Loring Conant, Jr. Reprinted with the permission of Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc.
Source: The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (1981)
Monday, August 24, 2009
Jeff Buckley Interview Excerpts (or something like that)
Ninakaw ko lang to kasi interesting:
1.
JB:
G.I.T. was started by Howard Roberts, the guy who played the wah-wah guitar on the theme to Shaft. And this other guy named Pat Hayes. I don't know. It just seemed like a racket, really. John said a lot of things to me that stuck in my mind. He said that there was nobody who stopped you, sat you in a room and said, okay, we have all these artists that you're learning the licks from, you have your guitar heroes, your virtuoso lust objects. But there's nobody who can make the kind of music you can make now except for you. And you can make it now. You don't even have to know how to go fast. And that makes all the sense to me in the world. It's also kind of an unseen process, that concept, originality. It's like that in all the education systems; there's never any real...identity education, self-generative identity art sort of thing, to be yourself. If everybody in Melbourne had a Wurlitzer organ and had the passion to sing something or make something, you'd have hundreds of thousands of different styles, if they were coming exactly from only their DNA, only their makeup, and their emotional percepts, their idea about what art is. You could have way-removed genres from what is already accepted, avante garde country-rock-punk-folk-whatever. It's unlimited. But for some reason, the conventions always take over and there's a very ready and powerful formula to step into...
2.
JB:
That's what CDs are for, though. They're for you to get acquainted with a personality, or to scoff at it or spit on it. Sooner or later, a song will mean something to you. He's taking it as a package, as we all do as consumers. But music, songs find meaning elsewhere. They're sort of like picnic flies ; they buzz in and take your shit.
That's funny. God only knows what he thought of the packaging of Grace. "Hi, I'm Jeff Buckley, I'm a syncretic wanker."
3.
JB:
Exactly. I don't recognize that sensibility at all. I don't recognize anything that doesn't recognize a bloom. You were talking about Anne Sexton and her rhythm. The thing missing from your written poetry is [points to his chest] this, the body that gives it meaning and shoots it out into the air. Poetry comes from the people who make it; the books are just books, blueprints. Dylan and Leonard Cohen and Patti Smith, all dark, all romantic. When I say "romantic," I mean a sensibility that sees everything, and has to express everything, and still doesn't know what the fuck it is, it hurts that bad. It just madly tries to speak whatever it feels, and that can mean vast things. That sort of mentality can turn a sun-kissed orange into a flaming meteorite, and make it sound like that in a song.
And there's that pretentious label we were talking about before. People say, "Why dress it up? It needs to be a song. Why all this froo-froo stuff?" Well, why art? Why painting? Why sculpture? It seems as if the world has done away with art altogether, any concern or any relationship with it. So many easy things seem to be over the public's head. But really, if they just came at it a certain way, it would hit them right in the guts; it's so easy.
Smith's and Dylan's and Cohen's power lies in their ability to tell that story so well, and all the stuff on Blonde on Blonde and on [Smith's] Horses and Radio Ethiopia and [Cohen's] Songs From a Room, even Death of a Ladies' Man, which is a sleazy-ass album; it's a real jewel, for someone to be able to sing that, to say that. Dylan had no ornamentation whatsoever. He had pure feel and pure language coming out of him, and that did all the work. He had such affectation! [starts imitating Dylan singing "Visions of Johanna"]
4.
JB:
There's nothing wrong, in my mind, with criticism. But there's something sinister about critics who are outside the process ferociously trying to legitimatize an art form into their sensibility. Can you imagine living in that kind of world? You would listen to a shitload of Billie Holiday, Satchmo, Fats Waller. You'd concentrate on the 30's, 40's and 50's, and then you'd write about PJ Harvey because she's sexy and she reminds you of Howlin' Wolf. I like a lot of their tastes. It's just that the way they speak about music obviously illustrates some real sour soul.
1.
JB:
G.I.T. was started by Howard Roberts, the guy who played the wah-wah guitar on the theme to Shaft. And this other guy named Pat Hayes. I don't know. It just seemed like a racket, really. John said a lot of things to me that stuck in my mind. He said that there was nobody who stopped you, sat you in a room and said, okay, we have all these artists that you're learning the licks from, you have your guitar heroes, your virtuoso lust objects. But there's nobody who can make the kind of music you can make now except for you. And you can make it now. You don't even have to know how to go fast. And that makes all the sense to me in the world. It's also kind of an unseen process, that concept, originality. It's like that in all the education systems; there's never any real...identity education, self-generative identity art sort of thing, to be yourself. If everybody in Melbourne had a Wurlitzer organ and had the passion to sing something or make something, you'd have hundreds of thousands of different styles, if they were coming exactly from only their DNA, only their makeup, and their emotional percepts, their idea about what art is. You could have way-removed genres from what is already accepted, avante garde country-rock-punk-folk-whatever. It's unlimited. But for some reason, the conventions always take over and there's a very ready and powerful formula to step into...
2.
JB:
That's what CDs are for, though. They're for you to get acquainted with a personality, or to scoff at it or spit on it. Sooner or later, a song will mean something to you. He's taking it as a package, as we all do as consumers. But music, songs find meaning elsewhere. They're sort of like picnic flies ; they buzz in and take your shit.
That's funny. God only knows what he thought of the packaging of Grace. "Hi, I'm Jeff Buckley, I'm a syncretic wanker."
3.
JB:
Exactly. I don't recognize that sensibility at all. I don't recognize anything that doesn't recognize a bloom. You were talking about Anne Sexton and her rhythm. The thing missing from your written poetry is [points to his chest] this, the body that gives it meaning and shoots it out into the air. Poetry comes from the people who make it; the books are just books, blueprints. Dylan and Leonard Cohen and Patti Smith, all dark, all romantic. When I say "romantic," I mean a sensibility that sees everything, and has to express everything, and still doesn't know what the fuck it is, it hurts that bad. It just madly tries to speak whatever it feels, and that can mean vast things. That sort of mentality can turn a sun-kissed orange into a flaming meteorite, and make it sound like that in a song.
And there's that pretentious label we were talking about before. People say, "Why dress it up? It needs to be a song. Why all this froo-froo stuff?" Well, why art? Why painting? Why sculpture? It seems as if the world has done away with art altogether, any concern or any relationship with it. So many easy things seem to be over the public's head. But really, if they just came at it a certain way, it would hit them right in the guts; it's so easy.
Smith's and Dylan's and Cohen's power lies in their ability to tell that story so well, and all the stuff on Blonde on Blonde and on [Smith's] Horses and Radio Ethiopia and [Cohen's] Songs From a Room, even Death of a Ladies' Man, which is a sleazy-ass album; it's a real jewel, for someone to be able to sing that, to say that. Dylan had no ornamentation whatsoever. He had pure feel and pure language coming out of him, and that did all the work. He had such affectation! [starts imitating Dylan singing "Visions of Johanna"]
4.
JB:
There's nothing wrong, in my mind, with criticism. But there's something sinister about critics who are outside the process ferociously trying to legitimatize an art form into their sensibility. Can you imagine living in that kind of world? You would listen to a shitload of Billie Holiday, Satchmo, Fats Waller. You'd concentrate on the 30's, 40's and 50's, and then you'd write about PJ Harvey because she's sexy and she reminds you of Howlin' Wolf. I like a lot of their tastes. It's just that the way they speak about music obviously illustrates some real sour soul.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Therapy
Me:
There are only two things I should do for me to fit in to this world. Either I kill my being idealistic or I kill myself.
S:
And you chose the latter.
Oh wouldn't I rather.
There are only two things I should do for me to fit in to this world. Either I kill my being idealistic or I kill myself.
S:
And you chose the latter.
Oh wouldn't I rather.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Bangungot... Malala pa sa Swine Flu
Con-ass, lusot na sa kamara! (Ayon sa bandila na kasalukuyan kong pinapanood)
Naranasan mo na bang bangungutin? Yung tipong hindi ka makakilos tas gustung-gusto mo nang gumising hindi ka parin magising... Yung nagdadasal kang magalaw mo lang isang parte sa katawan mo, isa lang, susunod na lahat? At paggising mo... Basang-basa ka sa malamig na pawis mulo ulo hanggang paa... Hinahagbol mo pa yung hininga mong pilit kang tinakasan...
Nakapanood ka na ba ng horror? Yung tipong paggising mo sa bangungot after 10 seconds biglang mangyayari yung bangungot... Parang yung sa Tale of Two Sisters... Kaso nakakaantok yun e... Psych thriller lang pala kala ko horror talaga... Anyway, yun magaganap sakto kung pano mo napanaginipan? Horror noh?
Kasi hindi mo talaga mapapaliwanag kung bakit parang namamagnify ng panaginip lahat ng emotion na nararamdaman mo sakali mang maencounter mo yung ganong situation ng conscious ka... Kaya talagang magrereplay yung same magnitude of emotions pag conscious ka na... Kasi napangunahan ng bangungot... Panghorror talaga...
Eto na yung horror ko... Binangungot daw ako (kasi narinig ko mula sa isang source, napanaginipan ko tuloy) na natuloy ang con-ass tas tumakbong kongresista si Gloria sa Pampangga... tas nanalo.. tas may immunity tuloy sa mga kaso nya ng kurapsyon... tas naging minority floor leader... (kahit ano, panaginip lang naman yun) tas natapos iamend ang konstitusyon... tas chedeng! siya na prime minister! tas transition president lang yung nanalo ng 2010... tas ayun... nagising ako... panaginip lang pala Thanks Lord!...
Tas... after many seconds... and many days... nakapagrehistro na ko kasi humupa na yung damdamin kong di mapanatag sa mga agam-agam ng posibilidad na isabotahe lang naman din ang eleksyon... Aba! bigla akong nanuod ng Bandila... na lagi ko namang ginagawa.. minsan saksi... kahit alin... tas ayan.. nagbablog na ko ngayon kasi para talagang horror!...
E pinaguusapan pa naman namin yung mga trapo... At kung pano nila pakinabangan ang kaban ng bayan... at kung pano rin pakinabangan ng mga anak nilang tugsh tugsh lang ang inaatupag... Yan tuloy nakakabuntis... (O wala akong pinatatamaan... problema mo na yung kung bumukol... tinamaan ka kasi siguro) E pano nalang? Sabay-sabay ba tayong lulubog sa Pacific Ocean? Bangungot talaga, pare... Inuman nalang tayo para makalimot...
Naranasan mo na bang bangungutin? Yung tipong hindi ka makakilos tas gustung-gusto mo nang gumising hindi ka parin magising... Yung nagdadasal kang magalaw mo lang isang parte sa katawan mo, isa lang, susunod na lahat? At paggising mo... Basang-basa ka sa malamig na pawis mulo ulo hanggang paa... Hinahagbol mo pa yung hininga mong pilit kang tinakasan...
Nakapanood ka na ba ng horror? Yung tipong paggising mo sa bangungot after 10 seconds biglang mangyayari yung bangungot... Parang yung sa Tale of Two Sisters... Kaso nakakaantok yun e... Psych thriller lang pala kala ko horror talaga... Anyway, yun magaganap sakto kung pano mo napanaginipan? Horror noh?
Kasi hindi mo talaga mapapaliwanag kung bakit parang namamagnify ng panaginip lahat ng emotion na nararamdaman mo sakali mang maencounter mo yung ganong situation ng conscious ka... Kaya talagang magrereplay yung same magnitude of emotions pag conscious ka na... Kasi napangunahan ng bangungot... Panghorror talaga...
Eto na yung horror ko... Binangungot daw ako (kasi narinig ko mula sa isang source, napanaginipan ko tuloy) na natuloy ang con-ass tas tumakbong kongresista si Gloria sa Pampangga... tas nanalo.. tas may immunity tuloy sa mga kaso nya ng kurapsyon... tas naging minority floor leader... (kahit ano, panaginip lang naman yun) tas natapos iamend ang konstitusyon... tas chedeng! siya na prime minister! tas transition president lang yung nanalo ng 2010... tas ayun... nagising ako... panaginip lang pala Thanks Lord!...
Tas... after many seconds... and many days... nakapagrehistro na ko kasi humupa na yung damdamin kong di mapanatag sa mga agam-agam ng posibilidad na isabotahe lang naman din ang eleksyon... Aba! bigla akong nanuod ng Bandila... na lagi ko namang ginagawa.. minsan saksi... kahit alin... tas ayan.. nagbablog na ko ngayon kasi para talagang horror!...
E pinaguusapan pa naman namin yung mga trapo... At kung pano nila pakinabangan ang kaban ng bayan... at kung pano rin pakinabangan ng mga anak nilang tugsh tugsh lang ang inaatupag... Yan tuloy nakakabuntis... (O wala akong pinatatamaan... problema mo na yung kung bumukol... tinamaan ka kasi siguro) E pano nalang? Sabay-sabay ba tayong lulubog sa Pacific Ocean? Bangungot talaga, pare... Inuman nalang tayo para makalimot...
Monday, May 18, 2009
Malaking Dreamcatcher (at kung bakit ito hugis bilog)
Ui, nakabalik na ko!
Binisita ako sa isang panaginip (ng isang prominenteng alagad ng sining. oo ang weird na ganyan ang mga panaginip ko) at ngayon biglaan na kong nagiging prolific na pintor. Nakakaubos ng oras pero masarap namang palipasin ang oras sa mga bagay na makabuluhan tulad ng pagkakaroon ng pribilehiyo ng maraming biswal na produktong hindi naman ako sanay matamasa miski noon pa.
Marami na talagang pagbabago at ang pagbabago ay hindi maiiwasan dahil ang tao ay tao at ang tao ay mananatiling tao kahit hindi nananatili ang pagkatao. Ang tao ay isang existence na hindi ganoon ka-existential(?) Parang prutas, walang katulad ang nilalaman at patuloy paring nagbabago sa panahon ang kabuuan ngunit habangbuhay iisa ang bansag, iisa ang uri kahit gaano man kapakla kumpara sa ibang kawangis din naman ngunit di lubusan. Dahil ang natural na takbo ng panahon ay laging natural, natural na ang kahulugan ay ang siyang di nakaranas ng kahit anong uri ng manipulasyon. At dahil ang tao ay taong natural at ang natural ay ang siyang perpekto. At sa pagiging natural ng tao ay hindi ito nakakahanap ng kaligayahan, (dahil hindi na napapanahon ang pagiging natural) kaya't walang nakukuntento sa pagiging natural ng tao at walang nakakahanap ng tunay na perpeksyon na ang tanging paraan ng pagkamit ay ang pagtanaw sa nakagawian ng buong puso, dahil doon din naman nagmula ang lahat ng bagay, ang mga bagay na hindi nakaranas ng manipulasyon. Ang manipulasyon ay ang siyang prosesong walang katapusan. Ang manipulasyon ay bunga ng kawalan ng kontentment. At ang manipulasyon ay prosesong patuloy na hahanap-hanapin ng taong hindi natututo, na patuloy na naghahangad ng perpeksyon, na sa premises ng ating pinaguusapan ay obvious din namang hindi makakamtan ng siyang humahangad kung tanging sa manipulasyong lang din ito umaasa.
Kaya ang kailangan ay pagbabago. (Uso to ngayon) Patuloy na pagbabago hanggang sa isang araw, malalaman mong ang pagbabago ay patutungo din sa basic, sa pinanggalingan ng lahat. Hanggang sa ang lahat ng pagbabago ay patutungo din sa natural dahil lahat ng proseso ay cycle. Ang wakas ay laging simula. Diyan hindi ako nagkakamali. Lahat ng proseso ay cycle. Isipin mo nalang kung gaano ka-abundant ang hugis na bilog sa buhay at sa mundo. Lahat ng bagay ay bilog. Dahil ang Diyos mismo ay bilog. At ang wakas ng bilog ay ang simula ng bilog. At ang natural na simula ang babalikan ng pagmamanipula sa isang cycle (na bilog). At kung magkagayon, ang bilog ay perpekto. At mananatiling perpekto ang lahat ng bagay na bilog.
At posibleng magbago ang pananaw ng lahat ng tao. At ang adhikain ng lahat ng tao. At ang ipinaglalaban ng lahat ng tao. At ang pangarap ng lahat ng tao. Dahil lumalaki ang bilog, lumiliit ang bilog. Ang maliit na bilog ay makitid at maliit lamang ang nasasaklaw. Pero ang lahat ng bagay ay bumabalik sa pinagmulan. Isipin mo nalang, sa dulo ay perpekto ang lahat ng bagay.
Binisita ako sa isang panaginip (ng isang prominenteng alagad ng sining. oo ang weird na ganyan ang mga panaginip ko) at ngayon biglaan na kong nagiging prolific na pintor. Nakakaubos ng oras pero masarap namang palipasin ang oras sa mga bagay na makabuluhan tulad ng pagkakaroon ng pribilehiyo ng maraming biswal na produktong hindi naman ako sanay matamasa miski noon pa.
Marami na talagang pagbabago at ang pagbabago ay hindi maiiwasan dahil ang tao ay tao at ang tao ay mananatiling tao kahit hindi nananatili ang pagkatao. Ang tao ay isang existence na hindi ganoon ka-existential(?) Parang prutas, walang katulad ang nilalaman at patuloy paring nagbabago sa panahon ang kabuuan ngunit habangbuhay iisa ang bansag, iisa ang uri kahit gaano man kapakla kumpara sa ibang kawangis din naman ngunit di lubusan. Dahil ang natural na takbo ng panahon ay laging natural, natural na ang kahulugan ay ang siyang di nakaranas ng kahit anong uri ng manipulasyon. At dahil ang tao ay taong natural at ang natural ay ang siyang perpekto. At sa pagiging natural ng tao ay hindi ito nakakahanap ng kaligayahan, (dahil hindi na napapanahon ang pagiging natural) kaya't walang nakukuntento sa pagiging natural ng tao at walang nakakahanap ng tunay na perpeksyon na ang tanging paraan ng pagkamit ay ang pagtanaw sa nakagawian ng buong puso, dahil doon din naman nagmula ang lahat ng bagay, ang mga bagay na hindi nakaranas ng manipulasyon. Ang manipulasyon ay ang siyang prosesong walang katapusan. Ang manipulasyon ay bunga ng kawalan ng kontentment. At ang manipulasyon ay prosesong patuloy na hahanap-hanapin ng taong hindi natututo, na patuloy na naghahangad ng perpeksyon, na sa premises ng ating pinaguusapan ay obvious din namang hindi makakamtan ng siyang humahangad kung tanging sa manipulasyong lang din ito umaasa.
Kaya ang kailangan ay pagbabago. (Uso to ngayon) Patuloy na pagbabago hanggang sa isang araw, malalaman mong ang pagbabago ay patutungo din sa basic, sa pinanggalingan ng lahat. Hanggang sa ang lahat ng pagbabago ay patutungo din sa natural dahil lahat ng proseso ay cycle. Ang wakas ay laging simula. Diyan hindi ako nagkakamali. Lahat ng proseso ay cycle. Isipin mo nalang kung gaano ka-abundant ang hugis na bilog sa buhay at sa mundo. Lahat ng bagay ay bilog. Dahil ang Diyos mismo ay bilog. At ang wakas ng bilog ay ang simula ng bilog. At ang natural na simula ang babalikan ng pagmamanipula sa isang cycle (na bilog). At kung magkagayon, ang bilog ay perpekto. At mananatiling perpekto ang lahat ng bagay na bilog.
At posibleng magbago ang pananaw ng lahat ng tao. At ang adhikain ng lahat ng tao. At ang ipinaglalaban ng lahat ng tao. At ang pangarap ng lahat ng tao. Dahil lumalaki ang bilog, lumiliit ang bilog. Ang maliit na bilog ay makitid at maliit lamang ang nasasaklaw. Pero ang lahat ng bagay ay bumabalik sa pinagmulan. Isipin mo nalang, sa dulo ay perpekto ang lahat ng bagay.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
After Reading Siddhartha
This is me wanting to keep sane.
Me and my (prose-like) writing, which is always always unconsciously done. Sometimes it gets the worse of me and my objectivity which almost undeniably deconstructs itself into something abstract, like alloy convoluted to artistic nonesense, art being dismissed as nonsensical to one who does not understand or is unwilling to.
Yes, like me and my quest for knowledge--driving me to the cul de sac or some self-depricating proclamation of mine (going lalala in my cuckoo head), which by all means I shall label 'quarter-life crisis' (assuming I die at 80). And my brain soaking wet, aching from all saturation (which is all too masochistic anyway). Over used. Full to the brim and yet pitterpatter it goes, screaming 'what say uncle'?
Like this very moment. Though I do believe that sanity has something to do with a person's anatomical limitation. Maybe, insanity is an uncommon spiritual experience. The way ideas are one-sidedly expressed by words. Because words are amalgamations of letters and letters are nothing sort of literary, or sensual, or anything in that sense. (or something similar to what Hermann Hesse said) It is the idea that is the literary. And still it is a one-sided type thing.
Ooh!
Ha? So shall we say that music is less limiting? Than words... I think so... I shall research on that. (This is maybe why I got so interested in learning all too well something I can thoroughly manipulate, something that can be disciples to my ideas) (which are all too sordid and villanous, and parenthetical, and doesn't really amount to much)
So, to do something metaphysical... That is using more than 10% of your brain... If it be permitted to 18 year olds in the 21st century of consumer capitalism.
No this is something really... A sober effect of cleaning my room and wanting to do Zen Buddhism to fill up some adolescent emptiness (if that still applies). To regain what was lost, like how i seemed to sound wiser when I was in highschool still (with these highschool essays as evidence), much to my chagrin (including this) or something like it. Huhuhuh.
Wisdom sounds stupid in words really... now I get that Mr. Hesse...
Me and my (prose-like) writing, which is always always unconsciously done. Sometimes it gets the worse of me and my objectivity which almost undeniably deconstructs itself into something abstract, like alloy convoluted to artistic nonesense, art being dismissed as nonsensical to one who does not understand or is unwilling to.
Yes, like me and my quest for knowledge--driving me to the cul de sac or some self-depricating proclamation of mine (going lalala in my cuckoo head), which by all means I shall label 'quarter-life crisis' (assuming I die at 80). And my brain soaking wet, aching from all saturation (which is all too masochistic anyway). Over used. Full to the brim and yet pitterpatter it goes, screaming 'what say uncle'?
Like this very moment. Though I do believe that sanity has something to do with a person's anatomical limitation. Maybe, insanity is an uncommon spiritual experience. The way ideas are one-sidedly expressed by words. Because words are amalgamations of letters and letters are nothing sort of literary, or sensual, or anything in that sense. (or something similar to what Hermann Hesse said) It is the idea that is the literary. And still it is a one-sided type thing.
Ooh!
Ha? So shall we say that music is less limiting? Than words... I think so... I shall research on that. (This is maybe why I got so interested in learning all too well something I can thoroughly manipulate, something that can be disciples to my ideas) (which are all too sordid and villanous, and parenthetical, and doesn't really amount to much)
So, to do something metaphysical... That is using more than 10% of your brain... If it be permitted to 18 year olds in the 21st century of consumer capitalism.
No this is something really... A sober effect of cleaning my room and wanting to do Zen Buddhism to fill up some adolescent emptiness (if that still applies). To regain what was lost, like how i seemed to sound wiser when I was in highschool still (with these highschool essays as evidence), much to my chagrin (including this) or something like it. Huhuhuh.
Wisdom sounds stupid in words really... now I get that Mr. Hesse...
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