Plathological

Last night I played with Graeme's shadow.

face shape

The face is so cow-like. It’s like every time I see it, I expect it to emit something other than words – open its mouth and grass-stained teeth. But so I expect the same from all faces – not necessarily a kind of primal grunt or low-slung moo as referenced above, but something of a decidedly monastic, or would it be, anti-monastic quality? Something constructing its own ideology apart from a broader interpretation and just going with it. Relating to this train, I can put aside my "cruel" side and my "just" side and just think about this, freely, whether someone is cow-like, or not, and what the fuck any of that would mean to me in my little context, without that context's mainstay definition being egotistical. "Egoism" and "self" being separated by a border. A border of what? Self-awareness? A self-aware search? We replace "search" with something of a more heroic connotation, like "quest," say, and egoism elbows its cow-faced snout back into the equation (and Joyce is put back into a glaring, well-defined theoretical perspective). The border of consistent, and joyful self-defeat. The border of questioning.

Questioning all like:

--Did Phil Collins really “sell out” or copy Prince 1999 a bit too much?
--If so, so what?
--And, for that matter, is he really an “easy lover”?
--Or rather, does he really see one when he sees one?
--Is Kundera really a misogynist?
--What does Kundera think of the song "Easy Lover"
--Is that face truly reminiscent of a cow?
-- Am I even a good person if I take the last piece of meat?
--Am I thanking this person, or sucking up?
--Why is that girl showing so much cleavage in that photo? She has no head.
--Do these questions make me or do I make these questions?

. . . and so on.

Ah, life.