Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Greg's LiveJournal:

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Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009
7:50 pm	sometimes I think about videogames and I do not know what to do with how much they mean to me. (Comment on this)
Monday, October 26th, 2009
6:25 am	I don't think there could be anywhere in all the world as beautiful to me as England between five and six in the morning, planes through a cold cloudy sky, the air still and not quite silent (Comment on this)
Monday, August 17th, 2009
8:35 pm	‘All your wishes,’ said the girl, ‘are irresistible because you have never learned to govern them. If you truly loved me, you would have the strength to sacrifice your love to the conviction that it would wreck my happiness.’ (Comment on this)
Sunday, July 26th, 2009
1:35 pm	(2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 19th, 2009
7:35 pm	'Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talks that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence. Inside its cocoon of work or social obligation, the human spirit slumbers for the most part, registering the distinction between pleasure and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend. There are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing happens, and though we continue to exclaim, “I do enjoy myself," or , “I am horrified,” we are insincere. ' (Comment on this)
Saturday, July 19th, 2008
9:09 pm	There is one bone, shaped like a bird in flight. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 11th, 2008
10:46 pm	I have been thinking about the only history teacher I ever respected, who kept us in check with a deep and silent unhappiness to which correct answers were just ribbons in the wind. I never realized until now. (Comment on this)
Friday, March 21st, 2008
11:30 pm	dunk contest Dr. Lawyer IndianChief: As I was saying, the most miserable person in the building blew out a pink frosted cupcake. Bethlehem Shoals: Was that dunk a metaphor for Gerald Green himself? Some "weeping clown" shit? Tom Ziller: That makes sense. A sordid celebration of a career in the can. Dr. LIC: There was like a glitch in the space time continuum. Harlan and Barkley said he didn't blow it out. But then replays showed he did TZ: I never knew Kobe Bryant was such a huge fan of cupcakes. He seemed inordinately pleased, as far as Kobe Bryant goes. BS: You obviously don't have kids. And I don't either. But I live by this cupcake place, and those things are like the Oxycontin of the grade school world. Dr. LIC: Gerald Green and McCants are still children. Is that what you're saying? BS: That's true too. And likely drug abusers. But I just mean that Kobe had an in-joke with himself. Kobe the dunker versus Kobe the parent, united for one special moment. *** BS: Does this doom McCants by association? TZ: I don't know, McCants became the star. Dr. LIC: McCants was the only one frowning during the superman dunk. McCants had more airtime than Damon Jones. TZ: If the Wolves stay together, McCants is like their ringleader or carnival barker BS: If you put McCants' brain in Green's body. . . oh wait, that's what that dunk was. TZ: Rashad took it so seriously too, like that was a dunk involving a cupcake, but he understood the heavy importance of the matter. Like Jameer Nelson would have been cracking up. Kyle Lowry would have tried to rebound the cupcake. BS: Cupcakes are a lot like clowns. They seem happy, but they're also melancholy. Think about how severe it is. One bit of cake. One tiny candle. But made into its own lonely, finite unit. Dr. LIC: Ironically, there was no actual cake. It was nobody's birthday. Yet it was THE BIRTHDAY CAKE. BS: It reminds me of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. (NOTE: I meant the Kennedy Memorial). (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 5th, 2008
2:06 pm	"Richard! It's John Terry, for you!" [hands him a banana] "Hello?" (Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 30th, 2008
5:09 pm	“How far would I go, you ask? I would cleave the earth in two like an apple, and fling the halves... INTO THE VOID!” (Comment on this)
Saturday, September 22nd, 2007
10:04 pm	Videogames Something I am not good at with these is silencing the part of me that's saying "It's the 1590s! It's the 1590s! And instead of archiving, preserving, you're working a job. You're not even going to the theatre!" (Comment on this)
Saturday, September 8th, 2007
4:36 pm	(6 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 29th, 2007
2:02 am	I wish there was something I could do with the things sacred to me other and more than love them. (6 Comments |Comment on this)
12:41 am	maproom says: I like the sentence "I borrowed my sister's FM radio" because you can insert "only" anywhere in it, with a wide range of meanings (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, April 16th, 2007
12:06 pm	Apple Song (from 'Thirty-Seven Small Songs & Thirteen Silences') - Jan Zwicky Red one, how strange the leavings of desire: the knife; the satin ribbons of skin; the star chamber of the heart, its eight thoughts brown as moles. The small snout of your stem, stiff with dreaming of that other world. (Comment on this)
12:03 pm	Order and Flux in Northampton - David Foster Wallace Fact: certain unlucky persons exist as living justifications of those phobias peculiar to mothers. Barry Dingle is such a person. His childhood, his whole life stands darkly informed by Mrs. Dingle's failure ever to be incorrect. Examples range through the history of the man. The tiniest pre-dinner treat does spoil little Barry's appetite. The briefest exposure of his unrubbered Hush Puppies to rain or snow ensures, with mathematical reliability, disease. The dullest of sharp things wounds, the safest of playground games injures, the scantiest inattention to oral hygiene sees the dark time-lapse sprout of an instant caries. The Barry Dingle who dislikes drinking milk, avoids it at all costs, does fail to grow up big and strong like his sister, a field-hockey prodigy. Also a fact: certain persons, especially mothers, come in time to resemble more and more closely their automobiles. Mrs. Dingle is outdated, rust-chassis'd, loud, disposed to the emission of fumes; she is wide and rides low and has a poor turning radius; but she is ideally suited for the transport of much baggage, and her mileage is phenomenal. Picture her, then, entreating the child Barry Dingle never, never ever, to cross his little eyes. She believes, with the complete conviction of the phobic mother, that the child who crosses his eyes Stays That Way. She cajoles, enjoins; the indoctrination's movement is as broad and slow and irresistible as the Dingles' station wagon. The orientation of his eyes becomes for the little Dingle an object of black fascination. He dreams, in the night's dark part, of his eyes crossing by accident, their paths never again to diverge. He avoids sighting on any but the stablest objects. He resists the natural urge of the child to look down at his own nose. With Mrs. Dingle riding herd on their mutual neurosis, Dingle treasures the clean binocularity of his sight like a never-miss aggie. He makes it through fifteen years of exquisite temptation without so much as a retinal wobble. Fact to be feared: the rebelliousness of fearful youth, no matter how momentary, can itself be a fearful thing. On 15 June 1961, Troy, New York, enraged by the imposition of a domestic sanction soon lost to memory, Barry Dingle stands before his mother in the warm checker-tiled Dingle kitchen and gives in to the terrifying, wonderful temptation of the ultimate transgression against natural and maternal law. The cross is delicious; his eyes roll toward each other with the sweet release of catharsis long delayed. Two Mrs. Dingles scream and raise four arms skyward, pleading for intercession against the inevitable.... Cross-eyed Barry is shunted from specialist to specialist. As Mrs. Dingle tearfully predicts, they are powerless to help. For six binary, true-and-false-filled months Dingle veers, bumbles, bumps his way through the doubled system of pecatum and punishment he has wrought. Finally, December, Buffalo, an optician at technology's cutting edge fits Dingle with an elaborate pair of glasses -- thick angled lenses that catch and reorganize the disordered doubleness of things into a unity that fuses at a focused point several yards in front of Barry's own ruined apparatus. Relief is purchased, at a cost: the glasses work, unify, but objects for a bespectacled Barry now appear always twice as far away as they in fact are. Smaller, more distant. So that for twenty years Dingle has chosen minute by minute between doubleness and distance, between there being, for him, exactly twice or exactly half as much as there really is. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
11:58 am	Watt - Samuel Beckett The house was in darkness. Finding the front door locked, Watt went to the back door. He could not very well ring, or knock, for the house was in darkness. Finding the back door locked also, Watt returned to the front door. Finding the front door locked also, Watt returned to the back door. Finding the back door now open, oh not open wide, but on the latch, as the saying is, Watt was able to enter the house. Watt was surprised to find the back door, so lately locked, now open. Two explanations of this occurred to him. The first was this, that his science of the locked door, so seldom at fault, had been so on this occasion, and that the back door, when he had found it locked, had not been locked, but open. And the second was this, that the back door, when he found it locked, had been in effect locked, but had been subsequently opened, from within, or without, but some person, while he Watt had been employed in going, to and fro, from the back door to the front door, and from the front door to the back door. Of these two explanations Watt thought he preferred the latter, as being the more beautiful. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 27th, 2007
8:26 pm	"scummy mummy". (9 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, February 17th, 2007
7:38 pm	Dressed in red and silver, she evoked the sounds and imagery of fire engines as they tore through the streets of New York, alarming the heart with the violent gong of catastrophe; all dressed up in red and silver, the tearing red and silver cutting a pathway through the flesh. The first time he looked at her he felt: everything will burn! Out of the red and silver and the long cry of alarm to the poet who survives in all human beings, as the child survives in him; to this poet she threw an unexpected ladder in the middle of the city and ordained, 'Climb!' (Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 24th, 2007
8:33 pm	I addressed the hell out of that haggis. Then I smashed in two with a ceremonial sword and broke the bowl. I would describe my scottish accent as "mock-estonian". I am a winner. (3 Comments |Comment on this)