this week i

'm just trying to piece together my corner of the universe.  tinder: i'm funny // cute // i love food // love to talk // personality breaks the scale

listen to jerry garcia, mais ou menos one song per week.  louis collins makes me wonder whether humans possess biological audiosensory pleasure maximum, perfection, and, in fact, it's not so deep.  maybe we mastered music early last century, shortly after the invention of sound recording, and have been cyclically re-hashing themes like a catwalk milanese or a comic universe.  mozart's, mississippi john hurt's continued relevance confirms

oh, kind friends, oh, ain't it hard?
to see poor louis in a new graveyard
angels laid him away

angels laid him away
laid him six feet under the clay
angels laid him away

read lord of the flies by nobel laureate william golding (won for universality of myth).  set in ww3, first book many read that meant something unsaid

there aren't any grownups anywhere

sucks to your ass-mar!

he still says he saw the beastie.  it came and went away again an' came back and wanted to eat him-

the martyred expression of a parent who has to keep up with the senseless ebullience of the children

roger gathered a handful of stones and began to throw them.  yet there was a space round henry, perhaps six yards in diameter, into which he dare not throw.  here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life.  round the squatting child was the protection of parents and school and policemen and the law.  roger's arm was conditioned by a civilization that knew nothing of him and was in ruins

so remember.  the rocks for a lavatory.  keep the fire going and smoke showing as a signal.  don't take fire from the mountain.  take your food up there

daddy said they haven't found all the animals in the sea yet

the darkness and desperate enterprise gave the night a kind of dentist's chair unreality

the head grinning amusedly in the strange daylight, ignoring the flies, the spilled guts, even ignoring the indignity of being spiked on a stick

he examined the white nasal bones, the teeth, the colors of corruption.  he saw how pitilessly the layers of rubber and canvas held together the poor body that should be rotting away.  then the wind blew again and the figure lifted, bowed, and breathed foully at him.  simon knelt on all fours and was sick till his stomach was empty.  then he took the lines in his hands; he freed them from the rocks and the figure from the wind's indignity

the rock struck piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist.  piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, traveled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went.  the rock bounded twice and was lost in the forest.  piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across the square red rock in the sea.  his head and legs twitched a bit, like a pig's after it has been killed.  then the sea breathed again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of piggy was gone

couldn't a fire outrun a galloping horse?

"fun and games," said the officer