ear infection

it’s time for more ibuprofen.

it’s time to thank Dylan over at Pimps of Gore for his plug (I plug him in the sidebar, but a plug in the body is long overdue (speaking of plugs in the body and ear infections . . . I won’t (speak of them)): you should check out his site, which (unlike mine) is well-written and useful and gives the reader real presents (whereas mine just pretends to pretend to give the reader something vaguely resembling (but not quite actually resembling) presents (or something)).

it’s time for two quotations from Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (which I recently finished reading (and it was wonderful), and when I finished reading it (it, by the way, was wonderful), I read The Hours by Michael Cunningham (which, by the way, was also wonderful (really) and was also, by the way, made into a fine film, perhaps you heard of it?) which may or may not elaborate on the quotation from Beckett above:

“It might be possible, Septimus thought, looking at England from the train window, as they left Newhaven; it might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.”

&

“For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying–what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt. / ‘But I do not know,’ said Peter Walsh, ‘what I feel.’”

it’s time for also maybe this one as well:

“A thing there was that mattered; a thing wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. This he had preserved. Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone. There was an embrace in death.”

and indeed, since the above quotation leads inevitably (in my mind) to Hopscotch by Julio Cortazar (especially the “people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mytically, evaded them” part) and Hopscotch inevitably to Prufrock (even though both Mrs. Dalloway and The Hours could lead one inevitably to Prufrock), it’s time for the yellow smoke that slides along the street, rubbing its back upon the window-panes; it’s time, it’s time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; it’s time to murder and create, and time for all the works and days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate; time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea.

it’s time for me to tell you what all this has to do with my ear infection, the taking of more ibuprofen and the thank you and plug in exchange for the plug.

it’s time for pain and the alleviation thereof.

it’s time for more blah blah blah here at the rocket2nowhere blahg.