Site Meter

Monday, July 30, 2007

The Major

There’s nothing that so intimately reveals and so perfectly conveys the substances of my innate misfortune as the type of daydream I most cherish, the personal balsam I most often choose to allay the anxiety I feel for existing. The essence of what I desire is simply this: to sleep away life. I love life too much to want it to be over; I love not living too much to have an active craving for life.

That’s why, of all my dreams, the one I’m about to write down is my favourite. Sometimes at night, when the house is still because the landlords have gone out or fallen silent, I close my window and its heavy shutters; wearing an old suit, I sink down in my easy chair, and I slide into this dream in which I’m a retired major in a small-town hotel, hanging on after dinner in the company of several other guests who are more sober than I – the lingering major, sitting there for no reason.

I imagine myself born that way. I’m not interested in the boyhood of the retired major, nor in the military ranks through which he ascended to arrive at the place I yearn for. Independent of Time and of Life, the major I imagine myself to be doesn’t have any kind of past life, nor does he or did he ever have relatives; he exists eternally in the life he lives at the small-town hotel, already weary of the jokes and the talk of the other guests who linger there with him. (Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet)


George said...

This has nothing to do with the post, but I found these toilet poems on the Internet and thought of you:

Ode to the Toilet

Oh Japanese toilet, you technological dream
Not a simple porcelein fixture on which to lean

You plug into the wall and offer so many choices
That even the sickest of bums rejoices

You move up and down to the height that fits mine
And allow me to adjust the seat back to recline

You warm to a temperature that I can select
And have a bidet option with water flow I can direct

And if I don't want others to hear
You offer a 'flushing sound' that's magic to the ears

The shower feature still scares me a bit
But my toilet and I, we make a good fit rel=

Ode to my Commode

The way the swirling motion gobbles
Up my stinky floating baubles,
Makes me truly understand
The brilliance of this porcelain stand.

Your round full bowl!
I love to wax,
I caress it carefully,
I imagine J-Lo's ass,

....But alas!

You're much colder to the touch,
And you don't stink as much.
I smile at you,
You look back catty,
An honor it is,
To be your Poop Daddy.

Of course there are days when my visits are few,
I don't eat enough fiber to come visit you,
But after a day like that I know,
Its only a few hours before my ass needs to blow

Bounding in slow motion,
I dive through the door,
My ass is on fire,
But my heart needs you more.

I dive into the bathroom,
And drop my trousers,
A day! A week!
I could sit here for hours!

puthwuth said...

There are times and places for the phrase 'thought of you'... what does it tell me about myself, I wonder, that this should be one of them.

Speaking of poo, Dublin blogger twentymajor has a little fantasia on the subject today:

John said...

Of course, I was very, very drunk at the time.