Why Fragility is My Word of the Year
And Simon, he's around. It could be a regular thing. Plus, he'd save money. All of these points are enough that he thinks maybe, just maybe, he'd be best to try and make Simon want to stay. Or want more. Or at least shut his yammering, and get with the program. But Simon's already pushed himself out the bunk, and is standing, without a stitch on, looking around.
Bends down. Jayne can't help the grumble that he makes at the sight, and it causes Simon to stand up fast and send him another glare. Standing himself, he thinks about getting a drink.
The final breath of a dying star: Stunning image shows how our sun will one day die
But they've got a job pretty soon, one with imminent violence, Jayne's sure. Mal would kill him if he showed up with fresh liquor on his breath. Plus, he and Simon drank enough for three last night. Instead, he watches Simon. Simon, who's staring at the clothes in his hands. But he don't stop looking, least for a few seconds. Then, he shakes his head, and holds up the clothes. They're ruined. Buttons are missing, sure, and maybe that's some sort of suspicious stain on one leg, but hell.
Things clean. Buttons get put right back on.
Done right back up. Soft pants and shirt, a real nice blue, maybe a little bit shiny. Ain't his fault that the buttons were too big for the holes, that Jayne had to tug a little. It ain't his fault that Simon, wandering around wearing those rutting things, had given Jayne thoughts. Enough thoughts that he'd offered to share his whiskey.
His best whiskey. Stuff he paid real coin for. And it sure ain't his fault that Simon gets grabby when he drinks. All kinds of grabby.
It's true. You are an animal. He ain't. It's Simon, he's just one hell of a peacock. Incident 5: Teeth? Too bad.
'Cabaret Macabre' at Happenstance Theatre by Amanda Gunther - DC Metro Theater Arts
Simon stood in the infirmary and surveyed his depressingly small array of medical supplies. They never seemed to last long on the ship, and it was harder and harder to resupply these days. It was frustrating, but mostly, it was worrying. He was making a mental note of things to ask Mal to get next landfall when Jayne stomped into the room, and lay down on the diagnosing table. Is there something I can do for you?
He had an annoying penchant for self-doctoring. Then again, it also meant that Simon had to spend less time with him; this could only be described as a good thing. But Simon shrugged that aside, and said, "I'm not a dentist, but I'll take a look. Lower right canine. It was a relatively uncommon place for a cavity, but it was possible. Simon picked up a light and moved closer, trying to ignore the reality that this examination meant taking a detailed look inside Jayne's mouth. It was sure to be unpleasant. He could feel his nose wrinkling at the thought, and was tempted to get a mask.
But Jayne gestured, and asked, "You gonna just stand there? Best to just get this over with. He took a deep breath and pointed the light inside Jayne's once-again open mouth. Somewhat shockingly, there were no bits of food stuck in his teeth. Hideous breath was not assailing Simon's nostrils. It was just — clean. He picked up a probe, poked at Jayne's tooth.
my last breath Ebook
And another. This time, Jayne just rolled his eyes. Pulling away, Simon shrugged. Maybe you have some gum inflammation. Just be careful when you brush. You can go. The results of those fights had to be more painful than this tooth problem. A slight suspicion dawned. It had unpleasant implications. Fix it. I ain't the doctor.
Make-Believe and Profane Geometry
Are you trying to woo me? Get out of my infirmary. I said no. Just go. It was a relief. Because Simon had promised himself that it would never happen again. No matter that Jayne had walked in shirtless. Incident Oh, fine. It's been a day. One of those days, not just for Jayne, but for all of them. People went and shot an overabundance of bullets at them, for no good reason that Jayne can see.
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- Sorry for the Inconvenience!
- One Thousand Days – Eric’s Archived Thoughts!
Simon stitched up a passel of hurts, include Jayne's own. And Mal's. And Zoe's too. Kaylee had been given not one, but three rutting engine screw-ups to deal with before she got whacked on the head by falling Serenity bits. Wash had been steering a little bit wild. They'd been getting chased. Weren't Wash's fault, but they're all feeling a little bad about Kaylee, lying there in the infirmary, all bruised and cut up, hair shaved off one big patch on the side of her head.
Simon had spent a long time on the stitches there. So it's been a hell of a day, and Jayne, he's beat, but also wired, and he can't sit still. The weights are good for a space, but his arm's hurting too much, and Simon said not to strain the stitches, so that finishes that. He ain't got the concentration to be cleaning guns right now — he'd likely forget one thing or another, and just end up blowing half his face off. So he's wandering, and right now he's up above the cargo bay.
Ain't nothing to look at, but he's wandering, not thinking, and wishing he could sleep. Maybe he's kinda sleep walking, though, 'cause he almost walks right into Simon. Didn't even see him there, standing in a bit of gloom, dressed all in dark colours. If we must. This was followed by a year of lowly kitchen work, primarily for a pizzeria in Louisville where I was known for working not double or triple but quadruple shifts, crashing for a few early-morning hours on the couch of a manager with an apartment upstairs from the restaurant, so that entire days would pass without my ever actually stepping outside.
And then, a collegiate professor of philosophy uncle visited from out of state, immediately blown away by how this boy with no higher learning so easily made his most prized graduates look like the ivy-eating dicks they authentically were. Being himself very popular with his students, I quickly became a sort of pseudo celebrity among the keg scene, showing up late in my blue collar uniforms to help them understand both Kant and cunt while finishing the remnants of their liquor cabinets, paid for by their always insanely wealthy parents.
I was a pet Bukowski, a poet laureate for the House Jihad. I recall one classics professor in particular, who would treat me out to lunch weekly to discuss nothing else but my reading list at the time, which I later surmised was his way of finding connecting points to better understand his own actual pupils. Suffice to say, I got to honestly know many of these quote unquote professional philosophers, invited into their homes to play chess and the like.
And among their ilk capital P-hilosophy was openly regarded as the dead science, presently confined to academia, and that no new thoughts had been brought to the table since the s at the utmost latest, even with them themselves publishing books every few years. I used to argue that they should key in on certain standup comics, like Carlin, Pryor and Hicks, yet they would shoot down those names as being too sociological-focused, with not enough metaphysical action going on for their personal standards, looming loftily on high above reason.
Certainly, the events I detail above happened a solid 20 years ago, but it remains clear that in fact nothing new has been brought to the table of the wonderful world of philosophy aside from identity politics, which is dangerously misbegotten, as I feel it confuses identity and personality, and thus, psyche. Equally, whatever the uncertainties that prompted the mentioned blog posts at the top of this essay, I feel that they too overlook what is occurring in the real world far and away from the self-pleasuring bubbles of academia, out here in the blood-stained streets.
This old essay of mine , for starters, would by all evidence seem to be well beyond the grasp of higher learning today. To limit the basic freedom of exploring self-expression to anything short of the infinite is authoritarian, just as to demand that said self-expression be embraced, no matter the form it might imaginatively take, is every bit as authoritarian. To understand is not necessarily to love or to loathe, as to love or to loathe is one-sided, whereas to understand calls for something more than that.
Which is precisely why philosophy must be continuously taught, because while all voyages of self-discovery begin on unsure footing, none should meet their end that way, or else you walked all those years for nothing, to nowhere. So writes a man with no degrees, only a mess of memories, burnt candles and scar tissue living the unkind life with no time left for sleep at all. Skip to content. Home noumenon archive the fool.