She'll tell you how I suffer

Today:

-encountered ms. F. in the train station, plans to meet later, news of too many children being birthed by our high-school classmates. It would appear that at least 5 of my classmates of 2004, probably more, have already had children. What is the world coming to? To what is the world coming? snicker

-Henry Miller is an amazing writer. He says what he means, it would appear. I like that. What more can you ask? He's not afraid to be vulgar, and he has no qualms about venting his spleen about any acquaintance, friend, lover, etc. The truth is paramount, although that's only true if you believe that the narrator is perfectly honest. Obviously he's not, but it still makes for a fantastic read.

-In other news, I have a problem with believing almost everything I read. Not so much with Henry Miller, because you know from the outset that you can't trust him, but with other things, like political arguments, or most any New Yorker piece. What do we know apart from what we read? It seems like at least half the things I know I learned from reading them, therefore I believe most of what I read, because it's a way to learn things.

-Make no mistake about it, though, Miller's Tropic of Cancer is quite dirty, unapologetically so. It's about Paris, and it's full of whores, pricks, chancres, and piss. When you read it, you feel as though you have to hide what you're reading from your neighbors on the train or bus, for fear that they might catch a glimpse of a particularly filthy passage and report you to the politeness police, or the ministry of truth.

-From the Boss: Your eyes get itchy in the wee, wee hours

Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations
Lost souls callin' long distance salvation
Hey, mister deejay, won'tcha hear my last prayer?
Hey, ho, rock'n'roll, deliver me from nowhere