Posted: Oct 11, 2008 6:16 am |
Edited by: michael baker
Saw Summer of Sam the other night. The scenes of Berkowitz in his filthy apartment holding pillows over his ears and screaming at the top of his lungs to drown out the voices in his head reminded me a lot of Sweatpants. That and all the crazy jibberish he writes.
It’s not so much that yr idle hands have nothing to do but smirk and mock, like a prepubescent valley girl, nor that yr stalking of me suggests a fixation that appears to be some kind of a homo hinkley, but what really amuses/terrifies is yr defragmenting paranoia: watching a movie should not trigger a succession of “signs” that speak to you nor does art clarify individual “reality.” One the one hand, it suggests dimmesdalian egotism--look, god is sending me a message in the sky; on the other more prosaic side, it suggests an Ahabian megalomania, a sort of twisted accounting of the world, as if you are a mad Arab with a broken abacus.
Most of these words yr ivy wife can prolly translate, with a little help from a dictionary. Get medicated--crazy people are actually boring and predictable, like yr music was, 200 years ago.