It needs to be said that sometimes my mom forgets important details when she talks. Like the time she told us she was considering leather (couches, it turns out), or when I was little and she said, "Here's a napkin to put your balls in" (the Atomic Fireballs that I was eating, she meant).
For my first apartment, when I was first married, I went to the lumberyard and bought stuff and made couches. My then-wife made cushions. I was really very interested in furniture. I was in school for architecture, but I had to live, and making furniture was different from designing buildings, which I couldn't do for myself.
When I got to New York, I had no place to sleep. The pay from 'Sesame Street' wasn't enough to rent an apartment. I was staying on people's couches. I stayed in the dressing room until they found out. I stayed with Jim Henson and his family for a week, and I wanted to do that permanently. I didn't dare ask, though.
I couldn't help but think about school and everything else ending. I liked standing just outside the couches and watching them""it was a kind of sad I didn't mind, and so I just listened, letting all the happiness and the sadness of this ending swirl around in me, each sharpening the other. For the longest time, it felt kind of like my chest was cracking open, but not precisely in an unpleasant way.
I couldn't help but think about school and everything else ending. I liked standing just outside the couches and watching them-it was a kind of sad I didn't mind, and so I just listened, letting all the happiness and the sadness of this ending swirl around in me, each sharpening the other. For the longest time, it felt kind of like my chest was cracking open, but not precisely in an unpleasant way.
There's a lot of things that are good in Scientology, because I wouldn't have been in it. And that's the thing: a lot of people trivialize this thing, like, 'Oh, it's Xenu, and it's a volcano, and it's jumping on couches and acting crazy.' These people are victims. We've been victimized. We believed in something because it starts out very normal.
Wild creatures' eyes, the colonel said, Are innocent and fathomless And when I look at them I see That they are not aware of me And oh I find and oh I bless A comfort in this emptiness They only see me when they want To pounce upon me at the hunt; But in the tame variety There couches an anxiety As if they yearned, yet knew not what They yearned for, nor they yearned for not. And so my dog would look at me And it was pitiful to see Such love and such dependency. The human heart is not at ease With animals that look like these.
You think it's so easy to change yourself. You think it's so easy, but it's not True, things don't stay the same forever: couches are replaced, boys leave, you discover a song, your body becomes forever scarred. And with each of these moments you change again, your true self spinning, shifting positions - but always at last it returns to you, like a dancer on the floor. Because throughout it all you are still always, you: beautiful and bruised, known and unknowable. And isn't that - just you - enough?
The dying bees, the Antarctic melt, the mountains of old tires, the incessant toxic belch of factories that make Batman bobbleheads for Happy Meals. Off-gassing couches! Cancerous tinned tomatoes! Imprisoned killer whales! Our breastmilk is poisoned. We live absurdedly, ridiculously. OUR BREASTMILK IS POISONED. Try and explain even one sliver of it to a kid, just one angle of a thousand, and you'll see the face of the world's most incredulous and urgent WTF. We have little to recommend us, and we know it. We shrug. Rasmus Krook is the Captain of the Griffons. He doesn't shrug.
Un soir qu'ils etaient couches l'un pre¨s de l'autre, comme elle lui demandait d'inventer un poe¨me qui commencerait par je connais un beau pays, il s'executa sur-le-champ. Je connais un beau pays Il est de l'or et d'eglantine Tout le monde s'y sourit Ah quelle aventure fine Les tigres y sont poltrons Les agneaux ont fie¨re mine e€ tous les vieux vagabonds Ariane donne des tartines. Alors, elle lui baisa le la main, et il eut honte de cette admiration.
HELLO! I'D LIKE TO INTRODUCE MYSELF TO YOU MY NAME IS BROKER-THAN-BROKE, NO JOKE, YO, FUCK YOU EVER SINCE I WAS BORN, IT'S BEEN THE SAME OLD THANG DIGGIN' THROUGH MY HOMIE'S COUCHES STEADY LOOKIN' FOR CHANGE IT USED TO COST 25 CENTS FOR POP IN A CAN BUT NOWADAYS THE MACHINE TRY TO EAT YOUR HAND, BUT HEY IT AIN'T REALLY AIN'T SHIT TO ME I STILL BOSS-MAN BOOGIE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREETS AND THIS JUGGALO SHIT AIN'T NEVER GON' SWITCH FLAT BROKE, BUT I STILL GOT A HOT ASS BITCH AND THIS BITCH IS THE SHIT, DON'T BITCH AT ALL I MEAN, SHE AIN'T EVEN A BITCH, SHE A JUGGALETTE BUT DON'T MISTAKE HER FOR A EASY-TO-USE SHE'LL HYPNOTIZE RICH DUDES FOR THEY LOOT LIKE, "JACK MOVE!" PLEASE BELIEVE IT, SCRUBBY'S THE WAY I LIVE NOT JUST THE WAY I'M TREATED, ALRIGHT? PEACE, BITCH
Axe Murder Boyz
Then on quaint pedestals and Terminal Gods and gracious pilasters of every sort, were shell-like vases of excessive fruits and flowers that hung about and burst over the edges and could never be restrained. The orange-trees and myrtles, looped with vermilion sashes, stood in frail porcelain pots, and the rose-trees were wound and twisted with superb invention over trellis and standard. Upon one side of the terrace a long gilded stage for the comedians was curtained off with Pagonian tapestries, and in front of it the music-stands were placed. The tables arranged between the fountain and the flight of steps to the sixth terrace were all circular, covered with white damask, and strewn with irises, roses, kingcups, colombines, daffodils, carnations and lilies; and the couches, high with soft cushions and spread with more stuffs than could be named, had fans thrown upon them, and little amorous surprise packets.
But then I realized, they weren't calling out for their own mothers. Not those weak women, those victims. Drug addicts, shopaholics, cookie bakers. They didn't mean the women who let them down, who failed to help them into womanhood, women who let their boyfriends run a train on them. Bingers, purgers, women smiling into mirrors, women in girdles, women on barstools. Not those women with their complaints and their magazines, controlling women, women who asked, what's in in for me? Not the women watching TV while they made dinner, women who dyed their hair blond behind closed doors trying to look twenty-three. They didn't mean the mothers washing dishes wishing they'd never married, the ones in the ER, saying they fell down the stairs, not the ones in prison saying lonliness is the human condition, get used to it. The wanted the real mother, the blood mother, the great womb, mother of fierce compassion, a woman large enough to hold all the pain, to carry it away. What we needed was someone who bled, someone deep and rich as a field, a wide-hipped mother, awesome, immense, women like huge soft couches, mothers coursing with blood, mothers big enough, wide enough for us to hid in, to sink down to the bottom of, mothers who would breathe for us when we could not breathe anymore, who would fight for us, who would kill for us, die for us.