Thursday 29 July 1999
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Pic of the day: You dream of the MOOON ... and of a man who is
LESS than a man... (Quote and graphichs from the roleplaying
game Daggerfall.)
Synchronicitizen: So after yesterday's botched attempt at buying a monitor, I settled today for a lesser crop of the earthly pleasure, the Things of the World, the temptations of consumerism. A glitter lamp. I had seen it in the new shop in the first floor, in the place where once was sold delicious pizza, in glory times now bygone. I saw the glitter lamp and desired it, for days and days. The slowly roiling clear fluid, within which the glitter danced a slow dance, unheeding my hungry eyes, each spark shining, moving, changing. Like galaxies threading their ways through spacetime. I had stopped up and looked at it. Not once, not twice, but again and again. And in my mind the temptation was already matured into full grown desire: I wanted it. I wanted to take it home, to turn off all the lights, to let my eyes feast upon its shape in silence until I no longer would know where I ended and it began. So I grew up in the sixties, blame my parents. Or society. Society made me do it. Anyway, actually, it did not. Quite the opposite: Armed with real money as well as my VISA card and Mastercard, I entered the shop after I left work. The only other "customers" were some Spanish-speaking kids. It was now or never, I decided. Nothing could stop me now. Glancing meaningfully at the lamp, I placed myself squarely in front of the flabby young girl slouching behind the counter. And waited. And waited. And waited. While she studiously looked out of the shop, into the mall proper. Not that I could see anything interesting there. There was a guy even older than me, certainly not the arch-typical glitter lamp customer that I was: Dressed in timeless clothes at $100 apiece (not counting the underwear, which she anyway could neither see nor smell) and carrying my portable computer easily visible over my right shoulder. What more could I do, except wearing a large sign reading "Glitter Lamp Buying Customer"? Well, I could speak up, of course. I could say "Excuse me miss" or "Hello?" or "Please, could I buy a lamp?" But there are limits to the extremes to which I will go even in the throes of my base desire for glitter lamps. (Or the nearby red lava lamp.) So I waited some more. And then some more. And then some. While Miss Flabby slouched more and more, until she was practically lying over her counter, still carefully avoiding any risk of eye contact. OK, I am not exactly Robert Redford. Then again, neither was she. I will not generally sink to the level of indicating that looking like Robert Redford would be an improvement to a woman. But right then, right there, I would not be averse to have her fired and Robert Redford hired instead. Not that I would recognize him, most likely. But I'm pretty sure he would have sold me a glitter lamp, if that was what he was paid to do. She was not Robert Redford, and she did not sell me a lamp or otherwise recognize my legitimate presence in a shop that I sincerely hope she did not own, being too young to sink so far into debt as she would if she kept up her current practice of not selling glitter lamps to middle-aged middle-class Mastercard-carrying citizens. She was not James Redfield either, but even so, I remembered his words: "Trust synchronicity." For some reason, a small voice in my head always adds "Synchronicity is your friend" to that statement. Of course, without voices in my head I would probably not read James Redfield in the first place. (Not that they are actual voices, only thoughts, like everyone has. But it looks so much more dramatic with voices.) So I trusted synchronicity and went my merry way. Though not quite as merry as my way to the shop had been. Oh, the seduction by the material world of our immortal spirit! Oh, the seduction by lava lamps and all their close cousins, and Pink Floyd too! On the bright side, there is The Cure. Oh, and on another bright side, there was definitely no suction by Flabby Girl. My horny-o-meter did not even twitch, despite the full moon. I am not referring to the full moon of the girl, which I did not see (though I felt it was all that lacked in the dept of customer service) but the full moon in the sky. Long-time readers will remember that at full mooooooon, such as the last nights, I undergo a partial transformation. Sleep at night becomes fitful and shallow, my hair and nails grow with surprising speed (actually they do that generally) and I become unusually horny. (Or whatever the male equivalent of that may be. Probably there is no word for it, as it is assumed to be the default state of the male mind and body.) Wonder if I should call this averse full moon effect "the dark side of the moon"? Add the fact that my lower back hurts from unpacking crates of computers at work, and I could definitely need some massage and stuff right now. But in the absence of that, I enjoy writing to y'all, as usual. Hope you feel better now too. I do. :) |
No glitter was harmed in making this journal.
For more glitter, go glitter. |