I don't think masochism is the right word for it. It's not pain, really. It's a sort of ache that I've always found hard to describe. A dull thud, the sort of thing that comes from the weight of several realizations washing over you at once. It's like death, and drowning, and coughing and sputtering for air and when you finally come up for breath, the world is gone. Like you're standing on a mountain, watching the old gods die.
And then, when you finally recognize it, like some familiar face in a memory that you thought you'd lost or maybe never even had, it makes you cry, it makes your face hot and your breath ragged and when you finally look up and realize that nothing and everything has changed, you're overcome by the urge to do it again, to seek out the rough, blunted razor and cut yourself dumbly on it because you know that the sensation of getting torn open again will really just get you closer to feeling something, something that feels so good while it sucks and squeezes the air out of your lungs and leaves you half-drowned and gasping for life.
And once you step back to think, you're only dragged off further; into the death of the text, into its own rebirth as you begin to own it, and into the ways it starts to build itself into you; until it becomes something completely new - a post-text, a fictional memory, a bricolage of random, disconnected laughter and wailing and dissociated faces and symbols and words and feelings, until you think about it and all you can sense is the shadow of an emotion, a hollowness and a distant prick that you know that you really did feel, and how good it felt, and how terrible.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I have been having the worst food luck.
There are very few foods that I hate. Generally, I'm the kind of person who will eat anything, but I feel very strongly about my list of dislikes despite its reasonably short length.
The Top Five Foods That I Do Not like:
1)Beets
2)Cabbage
3)Mustard (unless it's in a salad dressing)
4)Ketchup (No.)
5) Pickles on things
So, the other day, I was right in the middle of this crazy-hard cheeseburger craving. I have never craved a food before like this. I was jonesing for beef patties and melted cheese. So, finally I gave in and went to McDonald's - granted, not the best decision in itself. But come on, I really needed a burger. Right after I ordered, I thought: "This damn thing is going to have pickles and mustard and ketchup all over it." My friend told me I was wrong, that No, They have the condiments around for you to put on the burger yourself. This was not the case. The thing was slathered in McDonald's-grade condiments. Sad, I know. I ate it anyway, and threw away the pickles. Little did I know, this was just the beginning.
When my host mother asked me (the night I arrived) whether there were any foods I disliked, I couldn't even think of any. That's how rarely I have problems with food. And, of course, I was being too polite. Keep in mind that I do eat everything; I'm not an ungrateful jackass.
Madame does not cook. Ever. Even when she cooks, she doesn't cook. And somehow, in less than 3 weeks, she has managed to hit four of my top five dislikes routinely. Keep in mind that I only eat here three times per week.
Madame's dressing of choice is equal parts mustard and ketchup mixed in a bowl. She is always insisting that I dip anything and everything in her adored sauce. I cannot comprehend a bowl of ketchup and mustard. I would rather put mayonnaise on my french (freedom) fries.
I loathe beets. I hate beets more than anything else, ever. They taste like dirt, and they look like someone spilled purple nail polish all over crystallized blood. Did I mention that beets taste like dirt? Only children eat soil, and even they don't often enjoy it. What did we have the other day? Beet salad. It sounds like I'm whining, but wait for the end of the story.
I had forgotten that everyone in France is loco for beets. It's some sort of genetic defect, I swear. The only places I have ever been where beets are a regular feature on restaurant menus are France and Quebec. It must be some sort of thing that the French teach their young at an early age - how to enjoy the delicate nuances of sod.
Cabbage is another substance that I dislike. In all of its forms. A few days ago, we had a lovely salad of red cabbage. I don't understand why anyone would ever make a salad consisting of nothing but red cabbage. It's...inconceivable. At any rate, once again, cabbage is a hit around here.
So, after the cabbage salad, there was also the Fish. Fish pieces, wrapped in plastic and then boiled to taste. Delicious. First of all, I don't trust the idea of cooking anything in plastic. It can't be good for you. Second, who cooks fish like that? I don't know. Third, when it's done, your fish tastes like plastic, which is arguably the worst part. Thankfully, we also had a vegetable "ratatouille" whipped up by the cleaning lady. At least it was strong enough to mask the plastic.
And then we had raclette, which is fun, but unfortunately does not contain all the ingredients of a balanced meal, and is certainly not cooking. What it is, is boiled potatoes covered with melted cheese (and accompanied by raw cauliflower and ketchup/mustard dip) . You melt the cheese yourself in a cute little cheese-melting tray. It's fun, but not really a meal.
And then we had crepes: Hurray, crepes! No. Store-bought crepes, reheated with melted cheese, packaged ham and scrambled eggs that madame had made earlier (she has only one pan).
And then today. As I was walking down the Rue de Levis on my way back from the metro this morning, I passed a little charcuterie that specializes in "Northern" foods.
Alright, look. I have to get this off my chest before I continue. I have a problem with Belgium. No, I have a problem with eating in Belgium. The only things there worth eating are the mussels and the french (freedom?) fries. The beer is great too, but that's because the food is awful and the inhabitants need something they can stomach.
Back to the charcuterie. As I passed, I looked at their sauerkraut stall. You will remember that I hate cabbage, and that sauerkraut is technically a member of the cabbage family, although sorcelated into something that's somehow worse than cabbage. These resemble popcorn machines, except instead of containing movie foods, they are full (like, really full) of sauerkraut and disturbing meats. Like large, strange sausages and fatty, gristly ham. As I walked by, I thought: "I hate sauerkraut. I hope Madame never serves that."
Guess what we had for dinner. I am not kidding. The sauerest of krauts, hot and steaming, covered with big, watery, salty sausages (the kind out of which you have to pick the larger bits of fat and connective tissue), and the very same dubious, fatty pork-meats.
I can't believe it. It's like russian roulette with food. Only it's a fully-loaded gun.
I am taking over the kitchen. By force, if necessary.
There are very few foods that I hate. Generally, I'm the kind of person who will eat anything, but I feel very strongly about my list of dislikes despite its reasonably short length.
The Top Five Foods That I Do Not like:
1)Beets
2)Cabbage
3)Mustard (unless it's in a salad dressing)
4)Ketchup (No.)
5) Pickles on things
So, the other day, I was right in the middle of this crazy-hard cheeseburger craving. I have never craved a food before like this. I was jonesing for beef patties and melted cheese. So, finally I gave in and went to McDonald's - granted, not the best decision in itself. But come on, I really needed a burger. Right after I ordered, I thought: "This damn thing is going to have pickles and mustard and ketchup all over it." My friend told me I was wrong, that No, They have the condiments around for you to put on the burger yourself. This was not the case. The thing was slathered in McDonald's-grade condiments. Sad, I know. I ate it anyway, and threw away the pickles. Little did I know, this was just the beginning.
When my host mother asked me (the night I arrived) whether there were any foods I disliked, I couldn't even think of any. That's how rarely I have problems with food. And, of course, I was being too polite. Keep in mind that I do eat everything; I'm not an ungrateful jackass.
Madame does not cook. Ever. Even when she cooks, she doesn't cook. And somehow, in less than 3 weeks, she has managed to hit four of my top five dislikes routinely. Keep in mind that I only eat here three times per week.
Madame's dressing of choice is equal parts mustard and ketchup mixed in a bowl. She is always insisting that I dip anything and everything in her adored sauce. I cannot comprehend a bowl of ketchup and mustard. I would rather put mayonnaise on my french (freedom) fries.
I loathe beets. I hate beets more than anything else, ever. They taste like dirt, and they look like someone spilled purple nail polish all over crystallized blood. Did I mention that beets taste like dirt? Only children eat soil, and even they don't often enjoy it. What did we have the other day? Beet salad. It sounds like I'm whining, but wait for the end of the story.
I had forgotten that everyone in France is loco for beets. It's some sort of genetic defect, I swear. The only places I have ever been where beets are a regular feature on restaurant menus are France and Quebec. It must be some sort of thing that the French teach their young at an early age - how to enjoy the delicate nuances of sod.
Cabbage is another substance that I dislike. In all of its forms. A few days ago, we had a lovely salad of red cabbage. I don't understand why anyone would ever make a salad consisting of nothing but red cabbage. It's...inconceivable. At any rate, once again, cabbage is a hit around here.
So, after the cabbage salad, there was also the Fish. Fish pieces, wrapped in plastic and then boiled to taste. Delicious. First of all, I don't trust the idea of cooking anything in plastic. It can't be good for you. Second, who cooks fish like that? I don't know. Third, when it's done, your fish tastes like plastic, which is arguably the worst part. Thankfully, we also had a vegetable "ratatouille" whipped up by the cleaning lady. At least it was strong enough to mask the plastic.
And then we had raclette, which is fun, but unfortunately does not contain all the ingredients of a balanced meal, and is certainly not cooking. What it is, is boiled potatoes covered with melted cheese (and accompanied by raw cauliflower and ketchup/mustard dip) . You melt the cheese yourself in a cute little cheese-melting tray. It's fun, but not really a meal.
And then we had crepes: Hurray, crepes! No. Store-bought crepes, reheated with melted cheese, packaged ham and scrambled eggs that madame had made earlier (she has only one pan).
And then today. As I was walking down the Rue de Levis on my way back from the metro this morning, I passed a little charcuterie that specializes in "Northern" foods.
Alright, look. I have to get this off my chest before I continue. I have a problem with Belgium. No, I have a problem with eating in Belgium. The only things there worth eating are the mussels and the french (freedom?) fries. The beer is great too, but that's because the food is awful and the inhabitants need something they can stomach.
Back to the charcuterie. As I passed, I looked at their sauerkraut stall. You will remember that I hate cabbage, and that sauerkraut is technically a member of the cabbage family, although sorcelated into something that's somehow worse than cabbage. These resemble popcorn machines, except instead of containing movie foods, they are full (like, really full) of sauerkraut and disturbing meats. Like large, strange sausages and fatty, gristly ham. As I walked by, I thought: "I hate sauerkraut. I hope Madame never serves that."
Guess what we had for dinner. I am not kidding. The sauerest of krauts, hot and steaming, covered with big, watery, salty sausages (the kind out of which you have to pick the larger bits of fat and connective tissue), and the very same dubious, fatty pork-meats.
I can't believe it. It's like russian roulette with food. Only it's a fully-loaded gun.
I am taking over the kitchen. By force, if necessary.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Hypothetical (and Fictional) Violence
So help me god, I'm going to murder someone tomorrow. I'm going to stab someone in the fucking eye. Or maybe I'll stab myself. I'm staring at the "exercises" in this pitiful excuse for a grammar book with which our teacher sought fit to punish us over the weekend. This is, of course, on top of the journal entry that we're to write each night - Katie has told me that we were only required to write one entry over the weekend, and I'm going to believe her, although I don't know whether that's true or not. Anyway, these grammar exercises (tonight's menu offers five scrumptious morsels) are difficult precisely because of how stupid they are. I'm not kidding, just figuring out what the fuck this devil-bound packet actually wants me to do is about one thousand times harder than doing the menial exercises that are lodged, filthy and maggot-like, in its stapled and barely legible pages. Once you've cracked their code, the real meat of the exercise is often something like "ask the question in a different way." No, not any way. A specifically different way that none but the most unbelievably close-minded sycophant could possibly understand. There is no reason to do any of the torturous exercises in this aborted hack of a workbook. None of it means anything. Let me make this clear: I don't give two good goddamns about any of the five different ways of posing questions using "Ne...Que" and "Ne...Jamais." It doesn't matter. You can only use one at a time. Writing the same sentence five different ways works for eighth-graders, not fucking French Literature majors. Here, I am imagining the repeated scrawling of inane phrases on the proverbial chalkboard, and as I look at the three exercises I have already completed on a ridiculously cramped and unusable piece of their fucking omnipresent graph paper, I feel like bursting into tears. Tears of hatred. I am in hell, and this book is Satan. I am going to need to clean myself after working with this thing. As in it needs to be burned, and my hands need to be scrubbed with lye and bleach to rid them of its vile, putrid stench.
As a side note, work on "Alastor Sinncraft: Manfist's Revenge" has been put temporarily on hold. Now, wait. Before those of you contemplating suicide at the thought of its delayed arrival do something drastic, I can at least offer you several juicy tidbits. You will notice that the story is extreme, but also tender. It's like Romeo and Juliet, only set in a futuristic Post-Apocalyptic desert-world full of Darkness and Danger and populated by Future Witches. I hope that you await with bated breath the release of what I am sure will be one of the biggest and most successful instances of outright plagiarism and that the internet has ever seen. I do fear, in my heart of hearts, that the tidbits I have extracted may be too juicy; that in showing them to you I doom my own creation to failure, and you will be left with no desire to read the rest of the thing - a sentiment with which, despite my status as author of the blasted text, I can commiserate:
If you are not aware of what, exactly, a Magnabike is, I urge you to google it with all available haste:
“Alright, Xerian,” said Alastor Sinncraft to his Magnabike, for that was the wild creature’s name, “it’s time to take it off the hook.” The panels of the Sandcycle fell away to reveal Extreme Flame-Red flanks and a cockpit that extended to wrap around Sinncraft. The bike elongated and lowered to the sand. Fire shot out of six massive chrome exhaust pipes at the back of the cycle, and as Sinncraft revved the million-beastpower Devil Motors, the Magnabike roared and shot into the darkness howling like a warthog-banshee. He grinned darkly, the thrill of the speed lifting his spirits as almost nothing else could. But then he heard a noise behind him. Another Magnabike! That could mean only one thing: The presence of a bandit Sorcelator, with enough Power to reign in a techno-beast as fearsome as a Magnabike. The night had just gotten Extreme.
Here, we see a glimpse of Alastor Sinncraft's arch-nemesis, Lieutenant Manfist:
Alastor Sinncraft looked at the man’s six robot arms, each clutching a lit xyberwand. He was half-man and half-machine, and all Badness. His totally Extreme persona was underlined by the Rad biker boots he was wearing, and the Totally Sweet way that his cloak was flapping in an invisible breeze. He had ammo belts strapped across his chest, and a Big Ass Gun was slung across his back.
“Lieutenant Manfist,” said Alastor Sinncraft in his gravely voice. The cyborg chuckled. “In the flesh,” he replied, in a totally Mysterious way. “Or at least...partly,” he smirked. “What the hell have you done to yourself?” Asked Sinncraft, darkly.
“Unfortunately for you, Sinn, I have been totally Pimped Out. As you can see, my power and awesomeness, as well as badness, have increased Megaly since the last time we crossed paths. I’ll admit, it’s my new master – not me – who had the interest in you, but you see…I owe him for these.” Lieutenant Manfist flexed his robotic arms. “You Rad Bastard,” said Alastor Sinncraft, broodingly, “That’s totally off the Hook in badness.”
Alastor Sinncraft ponders the best way to defeat the cyborg before him:
Alastor Sinncraft knew that his Megaly Rad foe was wicked sweet, and he also knew that to defeat him he would have to do something totally Off the Hook. His manly mind ticked over darkly, pondering the best way of defeating the cyborg before him, as he continued to Light It Up with both wands. He knew what he had to do. He was going to have to take it to the Limit Extreme. He began concentrating, feeling the Awesome Power in him growing to Totally Extreme levels. He could sense the Extreme being channeled out of the living earth and into his Hot and Toned body that was Throbbing darkly and dangerously with Rad Magical Badditude.
And one of my favorites:
The bartender, who was struggling to crawl towards the door with two broken legs, cried aloud as Alastor Sinncraft’s Merciless Boot stomped down on his back and forced him to the ground, mercilessly. “Now,” said Alastor calmly, “you’re going to tell me where to find Rex Brustar.” “I…I can’t!” Yelled the bartender, “I don’t even know, I swear! No one does! I’ve never even met him! He sends a guy who takes his cut and drops of the drugs and leaves! That’s all I know!” He howled in Pain and Agony. Alastor Sinncraft ground his Merciless Boot into the small of the barman’s back. “I believe you,” he said, his gravelly voice making a sound like manly gravel in the quiet bar. “When I leave, you call this guy and you tell him that you have a message for Rex Brustar. Can you do that?” “Yes, yes, anything!” cried the man. “What message?” “You tell him,” Said Alastor Sinncraft, “That it’s time for Rex to pay for his Sinns.”
I felt pretty good about that last line. And that's only from the first twelve pages. This story is going to eat your face off. Badical.
As a side note, work on "Alastor Sinncraft: Manfist's Revenge" has been put temporarily on hold. Now, wait. Before those of you contemplating suicide at the thought of its delayed arrival do something drastic, I can at least offer you several juicy tidbits. You will notice that the story is extreme, but also tender. It's like Romeo and Juliet, only set in a futuristic Post-Apocalyptic desert-world full of Darkness and Danger and populated by Future Witches. I hope that you await with bated breath the release of what I am sure will be one of the biggest and most successful instances of outright plagiarism and that the internet has ever seen. I do fear, in my heart of hearts, that the tidbits I have extracted may be too juicy; that in showing them to you I doom my own creation to failure, and you will be left with no desire to read the rest of the thing - a sentiment with which, despite my status as author of the blasted text, I can commiserate:
If you are not aware of what, exactly, a Magnabike is, I urge you to google it with all available haste:
“Alright, Xerian,” said Alastor Sinncraft to his Magnabike, for that was the wild creature’s name, “it’s time to take it off the hook.” The panels of the Sandcycle fell away to reveal Extreme Flame-Red flanks and a cockpit that extended to wrap around Sinncraft. The bike elongated and lowered to the sand. Fire shot out of six massive chrome exhaust pipes at the back of the cycle, and as Sinncraft revved the million-beastpower Devil Motors, the Magnabike roared and shot into the darkness howling like a warthog-banshee. He grinned darkly, the thrill of the speed lifting his spirits as almost nothing else could. But then he heard a noise behind him. Another Magnabike! That could mean only one thing: The presence of a bandit Sorcelator, with enough Power to reign in a techno-beast as fearsome as a Magnabike. The night had just gotten Extreme.
Here, we see a glimpse of Alastor Sinncraft's arch-nemesis, Lieutenant Manfist:
Alastor Sinncraft looked at the man’s six robot arms, each clutching a lit xyberwand. He was half-man and half-machine, and all Badness. His totally Extreme persona was underlined by the Rad biker boots he was wearing, and the Totally Sweet way that his cloak was flapping in an invisible breeze. He had ammo belts strapped across his chest, and a Big Ass Gun was slung across his back.
“Lieutenant Manfist,” said Alastor Sinncraft in his gravely voice. The cyborg chuckled. “In the flesh,” he replied, in a totally Mysterious way. “Or at least...partly,” he smirked. “What the hell have you done to yourself?” Asked Sinncraft, darkly.
“Unfortunately for you, Sinn, I have been totally Pimped Out. As you can see, my power and awesomeness, as well as badness, have increased Megaly since the last time we crossed paths. I’ll admit, it’s my new master – not me – who had the interest in you, but you see…I owe him for these.” Lieutenant Manfist flexed his robotic arms. “You Rad Bastard,” said Alastor Sinncraft, broodingly, “That’s totally off the Hook in badness.”
Alastor Sinncraft ponders the best way to defeat the cyborg before him:
Alastor Sinncraft knew that his Megaly Rad foe was wicked sweet, and he also knew that to defeat him he would have to do something totally Off the Hook. His manly mind ticked over darkly, pondering the best way of defeating the cyborg before him, as he continued to Light It Up with both wands. He knew what he had to do. He was going to have to take it to the Limit Extreme. He began concentrating, feeling the Awesome Power in him growing to Totally Extreme levels. He could sense the Extreme being channeled out of the living earth and into his Hot and Toned body that was Throbbing darkly and dangerously with Rad Magical Badditude.
And one of my favorites:
The bartender, who was struggling to crawl towards the door with two broken legs, cried aloud as Alastor Sinncraft’s Merciless Boot stomped down on his back and forced him to the ground, mercilessly. “Now,” said Alastor calmly, “you’re going to tell me where to find Rex Brustar.” “I…I can’t!” Yelled the bartender, “I don’t even know, I swear! No one does! I’ve never even met him! He sends a guy who takes his cut and drops of the drugs and leaves! That’s all I know!” He howled in Pain and Agony. Alastor Sinncraft ground his Merciless Boot into the small of the barman’s back. “I believe you,” he said, his gravelly voice making a sound like manly gravel in the quiet bar. “When I leave, you call this guy and you tell him that you have a message for Rex Brustar. Can you do that?” “Yes, yes, anything!” cried the man. “What message?” “You tell him,” Said Alastor Sinncraft, “That it’s time for Rex to pay for his Sinns.”
I felt pretty good about that last line. And that's only from the first twelve pages. This story is going to eat your face off. Badical.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)