a. i don't have to "be" you to feel you (and thereby, know quite what you meant).
b. art speaks to us each in our own way, so regardless of whether I am capable of imagining myself in your shoes (feel "you") the poem can speak to me and my own experiences, of that night... or perhaps another night.
Whether I found it target-rich or not is irrelevant, though, note, if you've been paying attention to me going on and on about the "eyes" over on my blog... one of the "eyes" was in attendance.
Woo - kudos for observation, my regular blog fans.
I put brackets around the second line - an emendation prompted by my obsession with grammar, rather than any 'poetic' notions. But I don't think the two should really be in conflict - grammar is the servant of creative expression in language. Or so I like to think. But I know I am inclined to be a bit of a grammar-pedant fuddy-duddy at times. How I wish I could just break all the rules like EEC. But you need genius for that... and I have only enthusiasm...
Ah, but only until we got to know you.Internet dating site indeed! As I recall you were merely trying to "extend your social network". Have you extended it far enough yet? As for your worthiness, well that never was the problem. More your striving for utter perfection in a woman, how can any of us measure up to that? Puffy ankles all round methinks.
Every bar is a memory.
And all the memories huddle together for company, so that in my mind it often seems as though every bar I've ever been in is on the same street, or at least in the same neighbourhood; every great drinking session I fondly recall happened on one night, or over the course of one weekend; and everyone I've ever drunk with fuses into a single person, the idealised Drinking Companion.
Sometimes it seems to me also that the melancholy that infuses so many of these memories had but a single cause, an idealised Lost Love.
Some of these memories I will now try to share with the enormous, faceless, blog-munching world at large.
These, then, are the mental voyages of the boozehound Froog; his many-year mission to seek out new drinks and new places to drink them in, to write The Meaning Of Life on a napkin.... andnotlose it on the way home.
Froog is an escaped lawyer - but there is no need for alarm; he is only a danger to himself, not to the general public. An eternal wanderer, he now lives in an exotic city somewhere in the 'Third World' *, where he is held prisoner by an unfinished novel (or, more precisely, an unstarted novel). He spends a lot of time running, writing, taking photographs, and falling in love with women who fail to appreciate him. He also spends a lot of time in bars.
[* OK, I'll come clean: I've been living in Beijing since summer '02.]
10 comments:
well-written!
describes last night's shindig to a T.
Well, I'm not sure that you'd know quite what I meant, T. Was it "a target-rich environment" for the ladies as well?
I haven't had that much interest shown in me for a long time! I suppose it's the 'glamour' of being a quasi-host at the event!!
You changed the punctuation - hmmm interesting.
Being the host in any capacity surely helps. Never a bad thing to be the man with the invites and intros.
yes, punctuation change, interesting.
froog,
a. i don't have to "be" you to feel you (and thereby, know quite what you meant).
b. art speaks to us each in our own way, so regardless of whether I am capable of imagining myself in your shoes (feel "you") the poem can speak to me and my own experiences, of that night... or perhaps another night.
Whether I found it target-rich or not is irrelevant, though, note, if you've been paying attention to me going on and on about the "eyes" over on my blog... one of the "eyes" was in attendance.
Woo - kudos for observation, my regular blog fans.
I put brackets around the second line - an emendation prompted by my obsession with grammar, rather than any 'poetic' notions. But I don't think the two should really be in conflict - grammar is the servant of creative expression in language. Or so I like to think. But I know I am inclined to be a bit of a grammar-pedant fuddy-duddy at times. How I wish I could just break all the rules like EEC. But you need genius for that... and I have only enthusiasm...
It's probably a sign of my excessive discretion that nobody at that party has any idea who I made the pass at.
Including the lady I made the pass at. Sigh...
I love your last comment! It is so....you! Darling, when will the world wake up to your worthiness? P.M. remember? Perfect...
Well, yes, that may be worth a post all to itself one day, Ms Anon.
It's true, blog fans, amazing but true, I was once labelled the 'Perfect Man' by a pair of charming ladies I met on an Internet dating site.
Ah, but only until we got to know you.Internet dating site indeed! As I recall you were merely trying to "extend your social network". Have you extended it far enough yet?
As for your worthiness, well that never was the problem. More your striving for utter perfection in a woman, how can any of us measure up to that? Puffy ankles all round methinks.
Ooh, Lizzie, you tease - that was a reference-heavy comment.
I don't think I've explained that whole 'puffy ankles' thing on here yet. I have to do so now....
I don't think I look for perfection in a woman. I might have quite high standards, but I don't expect perfection.
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