Il est trop tard (This post is mobile friendly)

The beautiful Georges Moustaki wrote:

Mon enfant ceci loin
Il est deja demain
passe passe le temps
Il n'y en a plus pour tres longs temps

Pourtant je vis toujours
Pourtant je fais l'amour
M'arrive meme de chanter
Sur ma guitar

Tu etais si jolie
Je suis seul dans mon lit
Passe passe le temps
Il n'y en a plus pour tres longs temps

I couldn't have said it better myself. Nor could I have conjugated those verbs without assistance. Well played, Georges. Here's the link.

Yet another short post about trains

-I am the pointed sweatshirt hood of the hardscrabble Lynn youth. Slightly starched, and improbably towering, I have become an entity unto myself, shark-like and telling of dozens of seamy dives and two-room tumbledown apartments I have seen, you haven't

-I am the train tunnel into Salem—dimly lit, always nightbound. Too ramshackle for the gleaming cookie-cutter housing complex not 100 yards away

-I am the shining water at Beverly, bright expanse, unfrozen, spared by brackishness. Boats bob, ready for pleasure or lobstering. See the mirror of the sun, with an orange sheen flashing flat across the wavelets

cryptic, now is it?

Try as I might, I would be unable for some time to commit to a serious regime of verbal economies.
I had been warned that as a rule, one should beware of people who treated others according to a sliding scale of preference and status. A person wholly kind and honorable will treat everyone with kindness and honor, so this line of thinking went. Aren't we always, though, making exceptions to rules, for ourselves and for those we want to love? So I now saw her through this lens. That, and she was something of a fabulist. She only did it sometimes, I covered. Andrea is different, though. This assertion I have based entire worlds on, worlds. She really is genuinely nice. This could not be denied, either, for based on it were other worlds, presumptions, years of life tenderly lived in advance. These were not to be undone under any circumstances. She's not an airhead, she's substantial, unlikely to float away on an unfortunately timed thermal. This is no joke, either, I am not what's called an unreliable narrator. Self-deceit is for the birds.
I would say I was proud of being a good soldier for her, but that wasn't really the case; I didn't need to be the good soldier because I wasn't even thinking about it very much. She crossed the street, and looking back, smiled and waved again. Her smile is close to me, always.

non sequitir thoughts on "King of Kong"

I was struck by Billy Mitchell saying early in the documentary that he once had someone draw an analogy for him. What kind of person doesn't even draw their own analogies, I asked myself. The analogy itself was also less than stellar. It should have been obvious then that he was crazy, but I gave him too much credit for having a family. I allowed myself the thought that the director of the documentary might be manipulating me, but it still seemed obvious that Steve Weibe was the better man. It did give me pause to wonder, however, why he wanted to be involved in competitive video gaming so much, when he had so much aside from that world, and the people in it were so petty and sort of small.