I've been reading heaps of Cormac McCarthy, Hunter S. Thomspon's early stuff on Chicano politics, Clive James' essays on Spanish writers. If I bleep out in my head the bits I don't understand I sometimes think I could talk spanish/mexican/peruvian. Yesterday I made guacamole and listened to Rage Against the Machine - ya for raza living in lala - and thought about living in a south american slum. Never wearing a shirt. Soccer in the street. Bandana looped around my neck when the wind caught up. City of Men of yo. Strap two revolvers across my chest and tattoo the holy mother across my back. Damn right beuno.
What the fuck do I know. Two months ago I wanted to move to Broome and ride my bike in pink shorts and diamond studs in my ears.
The only thing that excited me today was the prospect of a complete departmental overhaul of office spaces. I got hard looking at maps and building specs.
I should dream littler dreams. Like a bigger cubicle. Like a longer chain.
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