Thinking about creating a Squarespace.
A new camera is extra incentive to showcase the trials and tribulations of a new learning curve. Anyone know the ease/difficulty of Squarespace? The templates are insanely well-constructed.
…I agree with you. Such a life is too dull and laborious. Let us now consider the South Seas:
”You live in a thatch hut with the daughter of the king, a slim young maiden in whose eyes is an ancient wisdom. her breasts are holden speckled pears, her belly a melon, and her odor is like nothing so much as a jungle fern. In the evening, on the blue lagoon, under the silvery moon, to your love you croon in the soft sylabelew and vocabelew of her longorour tongorour. Your body is golden brown like hers, and tourists have need of the indignant finger of the missionary to point you out. They envy your your breach clout and carefree laugh little brown bride and fingers instead of forks. But you don’t return their envy, and when a beautiful society girl comes to your hut in the night, seeking to learn the secret of your happiness, you send her back to her yacht that hangs on the horizon like nervous racehorse. And so you dream away the days, fishing, hunting, dancing, swimming, kissing, and picking flowers to twine in your hair….
”Well, my friend, what do you think of the South Seas?”
Miss Lonelyhearts tried to stop him by making believe that he was asleep. But Shrike was not fooled.
”Again silence,” he said, “and again you are right. The South Seas are played out and there’s little use in imitating Gauguin. But don’t be discouraged, we have only scratched the surface of our subject. Let us now examine Hedonism, or take the cash and let the credit go…
”You dedicate your life to the pursuit of pleasure. No overindulgence, mind you, but knowing that your body is a pleasure machine , you treat it carefully in order to get the most out of it. Golf as well as booze, Philadelphia Jack O’Brien and his chestweights as well as Spanish dancers. Nor do you neglect the pleasures of the mind. You fornicate under pictures by Matisse and Picasso, you drink from Renaissance glassware, and often you spend an evening beside the fireplace with Proust and an apple. Alas, after much good fun, the day comes when you realize that soon you must die. You keep a stiff upper lip and decide to give a last party. You invite all your old mistresses, trainers, artists, and boon companions. The guests are all dressed in black, the waiters are coons, the table is a coffin cared for you by Eric Gill. You serve caviar and blackberries and licorice candy and coffee without cream. After the dancing girls have finished, you get to your feet and call for dsilence in order to explain your philosophy of life. ’Life,’ you say, ‘is a club where they won’t stand for squawks, where they deal you only one hand you must sit in. So even if the cards are cold and marked by the hand of fate, play up, play up like a gentleman and a sport. Get tanked, grab what’s on the buffet, use the girls upstairs, but remember, when you throw box cars, take the curtain like a dead game sport, don’t squawk’….
Trout sat back and though about the conversation. He shaped it into a story, which he never got around to writing until he was an old, old man. It was about a planet where the language kept turning into pure music, because the creatures there were so enchanted by sounds. Words became musical notes. Sentences became melodies. They were useless as conveyors of information, because nobody knew or cared what the meanings of words were anymore.
So leaders in government and commerce, in order to function, had to invent new and much uglier vocabularies and sentence structures all the time, which would resist being transmuted to music.