Anodyne
Thursday, September 13, 2007
 

Something I Can Dance To, A Song With Tears in It

To work under locked-down grey sky, cool wind, leaves skittering off the trees. Violin, handclaps. Dodge around the delivery guy unloading red plastic pallets of Pepsi and Sprite from the truck blocking the alley. "Assume Andrew splits his consumption between Pepsi and pizza, and that both are normal goods. Derive his rate of marginal substitution from the graph for the preference curves P and P1. Show your equations." No NYT in the rack. On down to the bus, and poor Skip Sands, shipped all over hell's half acre by his unhinged uncle, with his Psy Ops cardfiles full of Vietnamese monsters and fairytales. Work's blown ballast, wires dangling down, weird shadows from a temporary tube lodged sideways on top of the mass market mysteries. Nineteen boxes that just cleared the customs broker stacked in the front room by the plastic rat family, another half dozen boxes concealing Fred, the potted plant we rescued from the garbage can by the bus stop in the summer of 2005. Relentless anthropomorphisation! Animism, baby. And the reflex condescension of a "creative" young person exquisitely attuned to the minutia of his own subjectivity.


- posted by cjb @ 9:47 PM


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