Trapped under Ice OR: Fucking Metaphor. Thinks it's so metaphorical.
Here I am, post appointments. On my way home today, I found a piece of ice. "Fucking Ice. Thinks it's so Big." I kicked it all the way to the bridge that crosses the gorge leading back to my dorm (the reason that we have a rep as a suicide school). I noticed that as I kicked it, it would go farther and faster than I would, but only for a very short amount of time. It would just kind of skitter to a stop. And it kept getting smaller, so I didn't know that it would make it all the way to the bridge. It was the shrinking thing that struck a chord. I thought to myself, "Oh, my god, that's me. That's me trying to make it to graduation." I started to wonder if all this last minute help I was getting wasn't analogous to the kicks I was giving the ice block. "I wonder if there'll be anything left of me...." If that's not poetic enough, there was just enough ice left. It skittered to the edge on the last kick, teetered off, fell onto the ledge below with just enough bounce to tumble off into the great wide open that is the Fall Creek Gorge.
Just barely enough...
"Fucking gorge. Thinks it's so deep. It's not deep, Boxlor's deep."
Boxlor never ceases to amaze me. His simple philosophy applies to so many things.
I felt compelled to slam my residence hall (nicknamed DMC), who have been such excellent pricks this year, by inserting this in the end-of-semester congratulatory e-mail. It looks like I'm complimenting someone! Since all that the e-mails are is a list of shout-outs, it's perfect:
I'd like to say thank you to Boxlor. He is Big. DMC is not Big, Boxlor is Big.
-Your secret secret... aw, heck, you know who I am.
I have made Boxlor a prophet in my religion, which was, at one time, a very rich inner world that focused more than I realized on the crux of my personality. There existed an ideal, Bob, who was nothing in particular because he was everything. The metaphysical embodiment of the universe, but more fundamentally, a whole. The two sides (any religion needs conflict to explain the travails of man) beneath him were Provasic (taken from the name of the heart medication Harrison Ford prescribed in the Fugitive) and Ssenhsiloof (Foolishness spelled backwards) Abounds. Provasic was the icon of all that was serious and literal, analytic, scientific, ordered, and the spirit of getting-shit-done. Ssenhsiloof (Abounds) was the trickster, prankster, master of all that was funny, chaos, randomness, entropy, whatever. Provasic is cold and aloof, Ssenhsiloof is warm and friendly, and just about everywhere (hence his last name). Damned if, looking back, that ain't me in a nutshell. Trapped between two selves, striving to be the universal whole, everything to everyone. Shit. I thought of all this over while I was eating (I ate, Becca!) lunch between appointments. Two meals in a row, I have eaten French Toast, Bacon, and Sausage. I am happy, and full. As I was coming out of lunch, the sun had come out, so I had to throw on my sunglasses (I actually haven't been wearing them 24-7 of late!). "Fucking Sun. Thinks it's so bright." But that's forward in time, and this narrative seems to be running backwards.
Fucking Movie. Thinks it's so funny. It's not funny, Boxlor is funny.
I neglected to mention that last night I saw a preview for "Dude, Where's My Car?" and it actually looks funny. Fer real, rilly funny. I thought it was a throwaway, but unless they did the FOX thing and showed all the jokes in the preview so you don't need to watch it, it shouldn't be. DUDE! SWEET!
Last night also, I played a Presidents track that I didn't know existed. Seems before they covered "Video Killed the Radio Star" they covered "Kick out the Jams," which I believe is a Blue Öyster Cult song; I know it's on their live Some Enchanted Evening. At just barely over a minit, it was perfect for timing out to the top of the hour.