amy fitzgerald for anyone today?

light aware dock
lotusflower oh ella... 000212
lokkust At nine o'clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby's gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody from it's three-noted horn. It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach.
"Good morning, old sport. You're having lunch with me today and I thought we'd ride up together."
He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car...
sphinxradio in his blue gardens... 011209
jon See also: wreck. 011209
silentbob evan 011209
emmi ...and so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on trees, i had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. 040225
oldephebe aside from the anti-semetic and elitist and anti-black chords that shimmered vaguely and or not so vaguely through out his various writings....fitzgerald or rather the book the great gatsby exemplified style and class to a post-war (WWI)generation of young men who in turn passed that down to the next generation, I assume part of Frank Sinatra's aura, sartorial and charismatic ah aplomb ah style could have been sub-consciously influenced and constructed by fitzgeralds writings or the cellulitic/cinematic representations and interpretations thereof...

and then the wind sang something sad, some precosious autumnal quiver that augered the end of summer and the end of innocense and the beggining of this roiled neuro-chemical soup that would, or that he would allow to brand or set its stamp upon his life, his inauspicious life forever...well that was more faulknerian and only faulknerian to the extent of its wordiness...and so then he noticed that the tips of the grass were tinged with decay, with rot with that opressive tyrannical viccissitude of Nature, of forces beyond his ken, his knowledge his power to comprehend or control or anticipate. I am the man clothed in glass. And then the morning songs of the red breasted thrushes began to violently collide into one another, and the robin and the other songbirds turned from this holy choir, this sacrement of morning to this symbol, this auditory eqiuvalent of taking shards of glass and carving the ear into so many shreds, so many bleeding howling terror drenched shards, and still the chaos and bedlam that had usurped the morning sacrements would come and with it the whieght that crushed his 12 year old chest
andru235 oldephebe, that's /crazy/ that you posted that today; yesterday i was at the library and checked out "the crack up" which is not doing much for me but nevertheless, what a coincidence.

a coincidence, or you are a nosy homeland security snoop. oh, kidding. of course you aren't. (pinching your cheeks.) who wouldn't trust a face like that?!? :)
andru235 "the crack up", BTW, is a collection of fitzgerald's late and/or unfinished writings. there is a long section of two and three sentence anecdotes that is curious.

i also checked out a book of chinese poetry from the t'ang dynasty; the two could hardly be more different...i am preferring the t'ang poets, personally...
oldephebe Yeah.

That was wierd.

Talk about collective unconscious and whatnot.

i gotta check out that fitzgerald source you cited.


Aight Andru

and for one fleeting second they were joined, in this rarely explored, at least for terrestrials, realm of sentience..the image of icons being shoved off the top of the pantheon and then the sound of so much liquid brightness...



collective unconscious


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