I tried to relax after one day of work, came home and sat on the front porch and smoked a cigarette. Someone fired a nail gun two houses down. Not once or twice but steadily in a tight rhythm for a while. The whole time I sat out there under the evening sun and its waning glow I couldn’t not hear the thwap thwap thwap thwap of the nail piercing the shingle or wood or whatever material the man (I assume it was a man, though of course in this age of gender equality it very well could’ve been an especially stout and rough-hewn woman with peculiar instincts) stood over, kneeled before, strained his back and joints in handling. Probably a roofing job. Hard to say for sure but it sent bolts through my brain. Robbing me of the tranquility of the moment, the otherwise quiet scene on the streets. Columns of maple trees like an ancient grove. The tired satisfaction of having worked, of being done with work for a second.
When misanthrophy becomes a kind of glorious wobbly poetry both disgusted with itself and delighting in its own disgust. Top stuff.
I actually think you should become an Instagram food blogger and take lovely pictures of dishes which are accompanied by long diatribes against the failed hedonic impulse and its stunted frustrated sickness, the self loathing that is represented by a perfectly crisped spinach tartette in a bed of rocket salad.
When misanthrophy becomes a kind of glorious wobbly poetry both disgusted with itself and delighting in its own disgust. Top stuff.
I actually think you should become an Instagram food blogger and take lovely pictures of dishes which are accompanied by long diatribes against the failed hedonic impulse and its stunted frustrated sickness, the self loathing that is represented by a perfectly crisped spinach tartette in a bed of rocket salad.
Thank you. Another solid idea for selling out. It could catch on
Houellechef
Tremendous, bro. This one kills. Also, this needs to be fleshed out into a Netflix series--an over-educated, existential trainwreck barista (?).
Killer last line.
Much appreciated. I hesitate to offer up my offspring to commercial demons, but if the price was right…
a masterful gastronomy of despair...
Happy to serve