"One longed for movement in spite of everything, and I plunged myself all at once into dark, underground, loathsome vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting, from my continual, sickly inability I had hysterical impulses, with tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had a hysterical craving for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice."
-Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground.
You know what they say about beautiful people. Actually no, I don't really know what they say about them, only that some people are more beautiful than others, and that it's all a matter of sense and sensibility and pride and prejudice and I could go on quoting Austenian titles that serve as adjectives for all the things I want to say. Today I feel like rambling sentences and runaway trains that move at ten, eleven kilometers per hour with a dining carriage, so I can enjoy my own private view of the countryside.
There's a voice inside my throat: it comes out with a lurch and an almost-belch so I end up sounding like a duck, not saying what I meant to say in front of people I didn't wish to offend but did anyway. People take offense easily, even the good ones who say they don't and never mention it and are all quiet and soul-like. Perhaps all we can do now is speak words and words like that cockney lady who sang in that famous musical who was beautiful and had those doe eyes.
And then on top of that there are these men who smile. All they do is smile and say things and smile some more, and then they turn around and be the nicest men in the world but I suppose all we ever really are capable of is tumbled, uncontrolled, passionate, dirty love, in all its forms and variations and guises. Which of course, we spend most of our entire private lives trying to understand in some little way that will make us seem profane. Or was it profound? Perhaps it's all the same thing, and people everywhere divide themselves and other people consciously and unconsciously into good and bad, light and dark, beautiful and ugly, far and near, loved and unloved, alone and un-alone. We never mean to do it, I certainly never mean to. Then perhaps these rambling, long-sentence days come along where all the people are either sleeping, eating, dying or fucking and you decide all out of the blue to have a fancy for perhaps some conversation, or maybe that other thing we don't really like to talk about. Then we're fucking beautiful and disgustingly profane/profound and we get these smiles on our faces like those men who stand around smiling and saying things. It's gorgeous: I feel like I'm the only one who ever had the right to say I was young once, and so were you, and still be satisfied with that, and not go into a spell of manic-depressive lucid dementia that probably will cause chronic headaches and lung cancer and the inevitable neurological disease that no one's found a cure for yet despite the hundreds and thousands of medical faculties and majors and years taken in the noble field of the precise ART OF THE FLESH.
It's lovely, being totally and absolutely conscious of who and what you are and what you have been saying or doing or smiling. The words will then pop themselves out of your mouth like red candies, you will have an uncontrollable desire comparable to rutting animals to lisp or change the way you speak or pronounce each and every word like it were a flower, rotting or otherwise. It is the best feeling in the world, and I can assure you that even the realization of shared mentalities with famous dead Russian writers will not be a bother. Fyodor may well be the best friend I ever had who never knew me, who sort of anticipated the moods and the coming peculiarities of the lost and pitiful generations after him who would inevitably take after his dark and loathsome airs and take his particular and crepuscular views on people and people who smile in general. It can be painful, but even the pain is interesting, and you dare not say you are not happy, because you realize you are, and you smile like one of those infernal fools in the books you read and write and hate, and then you realize further that it's all only a matter of time before you or someone else succumbs to the thing which the general world has decided to call foolishness, or love, or hate, or a carnal relationship. Well now, there's a thought, isn't it? Look at us, pretty tomfoolery it all is, trying to presume we understand each other and taking after our grandparents and our parents, in that order precisely, and then going balmy when we finally have it all, only to know that it was worth nothing at all.
I'd love a male mind to pick now. Hello there, how do you do? Oh yes, most definitely, we serve bourbon and scotch. Would you like one whore or two? I am yet to be done with the process of maturity, but either way and anyhow I would love the pleasure of your company, intellectual or otherwise, whichever way you see fit. Although I would say male skin is golden, and female skin is peach, and the male smile is really a whole different thing compared to the female smile. Or face, if you will. Give me then a mind that will hate me and then love me and then throw me away, and I will be content, and perhaps the need for long sentences will eventually fade away and die.
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