Tuesday, May 23, 2006
(1:16 AM) | Anonymous:
Tuesday Hatred: Every man is, or hopes to be, a hater.
I hate this whole unfogged crap, what with the comments and the hosting and the this and the that.I hate that I had, some time on friday or maybe saturday or maybe, gosh, could it have been thursday already? maybe thursday, thought of some droll story—the drollest—which I was planning to employ in this, the Tuesday Hatred of 5/22/06, for you see, it involved hatred intimately, in its innerest essence. But I didn't make a note of it, and now I've forgotten it. This, the forgetting, is actually what I hate; I don't hate having thought of the story, not at all; that I said I did was merely poor writing on my part.
I hate that my "love" life is a picaresque in which nothing happens. However, I would probably like to read a picaresque in which nothing happens, provided it were well-written, so perhaps my real problem is that my life isn't being plotted by Flann O'Brien or some such a one.
I hate the band "This is a Process of a Still Life" for turning out utterly unremarkable post-rock pap and therefore being of absolutely no interest to anyone.
I hate the odd temporal compression to which my weeks, months and days are subject. Deadlines loom larger the later they are, so that there seems to be nothing but a monolithic wall of things that need doing, at all times, imposing against one just they way one imagines Jayne Mansfield's chest (check out Sophia Loren's glance askance), or the Alps, must have imposed against people unlucky enough to be caught in the shadows of either towards sunset. On a monday, for instance, all I can think of is everything I have to do that week.
Relatedly, I hate having been introduced to this game, which isn't even that good. I hate that my chess partner, the one with whom I play in person, has left Palo Alto and won't be back until the fall, leaving me all bereft and chessless. I hate Adam Kotsko for having been right about limerick chess: it really is too hard, or rather, when you're in the thick of the game, you don't really want to pause to think up some utterly perfunctory poetastery just to move the game along, and the result is best not spoken of in polite company. Plus, I lost the last game I played (in which actually the final five or so moves were unaccompanied by martial amphibrachs), a defeat which stings with the sting of a thousand defeats, each of which etc. This is only slightly offset by my totally awesome checkmate in the previous game.
I remember Tuesday Hating you for Tuesday Loving me.
