“The price is high when you keep the score” – that’s some fucking words to a Quiet Riot song, the line popped into my head the other morning on the bus on Myrtle Avenue. It struck me immediately as the kind of proverb which, while it might or might not have high one-to-one proverb-to-life value, is super functional and drives multiple components of a life plan. It wasn’t until the next day that I was embarrassed by my mistake, it’s just a combination of 2 clichés into a novel relational arrangement which in this case created an idea with such high generative power and low precision that it’s barely even a proposition. It’s the typical crap from pop songs and, if not for the lack of Ph.D.-level aesthetics words, artists’ statements. My judgment must’ve gotten tangled in the confusion – the sun was coming up behind Myrtle and flooding downtown Brooklyn and all the lame new buildings that weren’t there when I moved in and creating a visible span between them and the old structures that have been there the whole time, and the recently renovated facades and newly empty lots; it sent me in a spiral of nostalgia and regret, typically a good despair-making brew though this time it didn’t get to me that much. Still, I did run back through the unconnected reasoning, the irresponsible and the lazy decisions, failures to secure or to finish, dread, lack of determination, indolence and self-induced lethargy, in general the lack of respect for the severe effects of time and impermanence; then also the insensitivity, the assumptions, close-minded self-assurance, cowardice, the spots I’ve painted myself into. I assumed that I’ve taken care of a good number of these issues partially, probably none of them completely; there’s a few of these issues I’ll never fix. When some fucking words to a Quiet Riot song pop into your head, the right thing to do is take them strictly for what they are – some fucking words to a Quiet Riot song – and don’t stop to think about them.
Theoretical static instant of exact halfway point to nearest .001 second between the time when woman showed co-workers her glitzy fuckin engagement ring, and the time when she will cut her finger after she slams her glass on the table cause of argument with co-worker who got there earlier than the others to Chi-Chi’s for their night out because he had been looking forward to the outing and imagined it’s going to be the jovial web that people usually relish the thought of being caught in, of impromptu exchanges of potentially unlimited topics alternating among the different combinations of the group with all their personalities, where you can show at once that you are both socially ungreedy in a sort of conversationally restrained way, but also capable of an intellectually-driven and lightly entertaining boldness, and so he wanted to get a head start on his buzz to hit the merriment in stride but he ends up getting drunk off his ass too early and tells her that a ring doesn’t prove that her fiancee loves her, and actually there’s no possible way to prove anyone loves someone, and every time she says something like “but how would you fuckin know if he loves me?”, then he gets analytical and says “you’re not listening to me, I didn’t say he doesn’t, personally I’d bet everything I own that he loves you, all I‘m saying is that you can’t prove it, and especially a ring can’t prove it, and even especially not an expensive one” back & forth while her suppression of anger unravels through the landmark emotional stages like hysterical poorly-targeted responses, tear-welling, etc, too fast to account for until the whole thing stops abruptly with a deep gash in her finger when she smashes the glass on the table