Really it's the lack of adventure that's got me down.
I learned yesterday that I've never actually seen the eye of a hurricane and I hate myself for it.
I can't stop reading National Geographic.
Reading is the wrong word, really.
I can't stop looking. I can't stop pretending. I can't stop feeling like I'm actually in the jungle or the desert. Turn the page and it's the ocean or the arctic followed by some ancient village or Budapest or Kyoto. I can't keep myself from being in those stories. Like constantly hitting a refresh button on your wildest dreams.
The pretending really just is a Nicorate patch of nonsense that I use to pass the time from dusk to dawn. Never mind the reality that happens in the middle. It's not important.
One photo, circa 1953, black and white, is of a man holding a harpoon gun, with a 7-foot swordfish hung by the fin next to him.
He's smiling.
I've never fired a harpoon gun and I hate myself for it.
I actually hate reading the stories, the articles. Truthfully, they're the best part. The substance. They tell you about sandcastles and real castles and castles in the sky and your mind's eye draws a portrait of a place you can't be and you learn about wild, obscure facts that God had, in reality, never meant for you to learn in all your years on Earth. Like President Bongo of Gabon, who is the longest-serving world leader. Or that the United States of America, technically, stretches half way around the world, up and down or side to side, however you want to look at it.
But all that is worthless. I'm tired of words and reading their empty serif, san-serif black block letters. Pictures let you see the pictures they describe. The orange sun licking the beach, the stars scattered across the universe, the flower bloom, the sky. You can almost smell the dirt or the ocean or the trees. If it was real, you would. That's where the pictures get you. That's when you snap back to wherever you are, realize you are just looking at an image, realize you're wherever you are.
The other midnight I went walking and it was warm, but I had a coat because there was a wind and the wind was cool and the coat kept me warm, though it was heavy for the night. A storm was brewing, you see, trees were bending, dust balls rolling across the street like in Westerns, followed by dead leaves clawing the pavement like something sinister was about to happen. Shadows were moving every now and then, real and fake. The people I ran into that midnight were like those shadows. You felt like you were in the magazine, everything was so vivid.
Felt like there needed to be a photographer, to document.
Looked like the world was alive.
I got tired and went in an hour later and hated myself for it.
I learned yesterday that I've never actually seen the eye of a hurricane and I hate myself for it.
I can't stop reading National Geographic.
Reading is the wrong word, really.
I can't stop looking. I can't stop pretending. I can't stop feeling like I'm actually in the jungle or the desert. Turn the page and it's the ocean or the arctic followed by some ancient village or Budapest or Kyoto. I can't keep myself from being in those stories. Like constantly hitting a refresh button on your wildest dreams.
The pretending really just is a Nicorate patch of nonsense that I use to pass the time from dusk to dawn. Never mind the reality that happens in the middle. It's not important.
One photo, circa 1953, black and white, is of a man holding a harpoon gun, with a 7-foot swordfish hung by the fin next to him.
He's smiling.
I've never fired a harpoon gun and I hate myself for it.
I actually hate reading the stories, the articles. Truthfully, they're the best part. The substance. They tell you about sandcastles and real castles and castles in the sky and your mind's eye draws a portrait of a place you can't be and you learn about wild, obscure facts that God had, in reality, never meant for you to learn in all your years on Earth. Like President Bongo of Gabon, who is the longest-serving world leader. Or that the United States of America, technically, stretches half way around the world, up and down or side to side, however you want to look at it.
But all that is worthless. I'm tired of words and reading their empty serif, san-serif black block letters. Pictures let you see the pictures they describe. The orange sun licking the beach, the stars scattered across the universe, the flower bloom, the sky. You can almost smell the dirt or the ocean or the trees. If it was real, you would. That's where the pictures get you. That's when you snap back to wherever you are, realize you are just looking at an image, realize you're wherever you are.
The other midnight I went walking and it was warm, but I had a coat because there was a wind and the wind was cool and the coat kept me warm, though it was heavy for the night. A storm was brewing, you see, trees were bending, dust balls rolling across the street like in Westerns, followed by dead leaves clawing the pavement like something sinister was about to happen. Shadows were moving every now and then, real and fake. The people I ran into that midnight were like those shadows. You felt like you were in the magazine, everything was so vivid.
Felt like there needed to be a photographer, to document.
Looked like the world was alive.
I got tired and went in an hour later and hated myself for it.
posted by Chris Miles at 2:17 AM
1 comments
