Wednesday, November 30, 2005
the old man likes his cannoli
K was the kind of woman who preferred to be on the receiving end of hors d'oeuvres. Anyone who has ever catered would understand, was her line. There were many things to admire about her, not least was her staggering array of tops. I rarely have ever owned more than say four shirts at any given time; half her house was a closet. The other half, mirrors.
She was no intellectual, true. A magazine reader. You know, glossy ones with airbrushers instead of editors. The only string theory she was concerned with involved thongs. She identified with television characters. Believed that shopping was something to put on a resume. No qualms, you know? When she was younger, she might have shown her tits for one of those wild girls videos. She'd get drunk at cottages and claim to want to be a porn star.
So she was attractive -- in that replicant hot way -- and managed to skate through life pretty much unscathed. Impeccably shifting tastes. Taking and dropping jobs or guys or convictions, as it suited her. Always got what she wanted so she always wanted more. You know the type. Leggy Gatsbys. The tempting empty. But sharp. Once I asked her if she really thought the world needed a new line of handbags and she just stared at me like I was a grey sneaker. 'That's not the point,' she said.
When I knew her, we both smoked. She had her teeth whitened for the limelight. I kept my lips pressed together whenver i met new people. If cell phones had not been invented, I wonder if she would even have existed at all. Still, she got things done, and she wore high heels while doing them.
Her father was a Judge or a Lobbyist and her mother took pills, played bridge and drank manhattans with her ladyfriends all day. Twice divorced apiece. It was a pedigree for trouble well earned out. K could steal anything, except after a while, everyone just gave it to her anyway. Hard not to admire her. A Machiavelli in Blahniks.
She was no intellectual, true. A magazine reader. You know, glossy ones with airbrushers instead of editors. The only string theory she was concerned with involved thongs. She identified with television characters. Believed that shopping was something to put on a resume. No qualms, you know? When she was younger, she might have shown her tits for one of those wild girls videos. She'd get drunk at cottages and claim to want to be a porn star.
So she was attractive -- in that replicant hot way -- and managed to skate through life pretty much unscathed. Impeccably shifting tastes. Taking and dropping jobs or guys or convictions, as it suited her. Always got what she wanted so she always wanted more. You know the type. Leggy Gatsbys. The tempting empty. But sharp. Once I asked her if she really thought the world needed a new line of handbags and she just stared at me like I was a grey sneaker. 'That's not the point,' she said.
When I knew her, we both smoked. She had her teeth whitened for the limelight. I kept my lips pressed together whenver i met new people. If cell phones had not been invented, I wonder if she would even have existed at all. Still, she got things done, and she wore high heels while doing them.
Her father was a Judge or a Lobbyist and her mother took pills, played bridge and drank manhattans with her ladyfriends all day. Twice divorced apiece. It was a pedigree for trouble well earned out. K could steal anything, except after a while, everyone just gave it to her anyway. Hard not to admire her. A Machiavelli in Blahniks.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
Friday, November 25, 2005
the crack-up
demics
blondes
psychological dysmorphia
whisky
love
personality
mathematics
faith
regret
blame
telepathy
atomic constancy
reds
memory
zelda
god
blondes
psychological dysmorphia
whisky
love
personality
mathematics
faith
regret
blame
telepathy
atomic constancy
reds
memory
zelda
god
gold sounds and the horizontal rays of fall
what i like is when songs creep up on you from the backs of bars. there are songs that were playing when you and i were together that i never noticed until later. everywhere, secret soundtracks lurk.
yes, i'm still obsessed with figuring out how to remember all that i've forgotten. i'm sure it would change things. i try not to be a sore loser about my mind. But it's strange how, no matter how many pictures or colours or smells, all remembered narratives seem to be compartmentalized and fragmented. Loss is implied. It's pretty much impossible to recall a full day in detail. All the words of a conversation. All the strands of hair that fell into your eyes.
I suppose there is some comfort that outside stimuli - songs, say, or the quality of light - can trigger dormant memories. which makes me think we do keep everything in us somehow. it's just that we can't purposefully access our entirety for some reason. maybe for our own good. i can imagine living in my memories for long stretches without bathing or eating or opening my eyes. i can imagine disappearing into these perfect holoworlds. Perfect because there are no choices in memories. There is only what happened. Completeness. Though, I am not certain that you can always trust your memory. Why it would betray you, I don't know. Memory as far I as I know has no motive. Or does it?
yes, i'm still obsessed with figuring out how to remember all that i've forgotten. i'm sure it would change things. i try not to be a sore loser about my mind. But it's strange how, no matter how many pictures or colours or smells, all remembered narratives seem to be compartmentalized and fragmented. Loss is implied. It's pretty much impossible to recall a full day in detail. All the words of a conversation. All the strands of hair that fell into your eyes.
I suppose there is some comfort that outside stimuli - songs, say, or the quality of light - can trigger dormant memories. which makes me think we do keep everything in us somehow. it's just that we can't purposefully access our entirety for some reason. maybe for our own good. i can imagine living in my memories for long stretches without bathing or eating or opening my eyes. i can imagine disappearing into these perfect holoworlds. Perfect because there are no choices in memories. There is only what happened. Completeness. Though, I am not certain that you can always trust your memory. Why it would betray you, I don't know. Memory as far I as I know has no motive. Or does it?
Thursday, November 24, 2005
symptom of the universe
they all quit drinking recently. Doesn't it seem neccessary? so then he finds this baudelaire bit called "Get Drunk". Ask me what it means cause I don't know. Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something. I hope not. The universe has been nothing but trouble the last little while. Like that damn cat. What do you want cat? What do you want!
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
more massive baryons
No, there's actually over a dozen different types of kryptonite. These are the most powerful, conventionally: Green, red, black and silver. Green is probably the most identifiable to the general public. Its properties weaken and will eventually kill Superman. Red is nuclear fission for superman's Id. It morphs him into a glutton for whim and cruel mayhem. Black: schizophrenia in mineral form. Silver is my number one. It's like Superman's personal Hitchcock-of-the-mind. When exposed to it, he devolves into fractured paranoia. He becomes the irrational. This is the superman I can identify with. The bewildered man.I guess I should make honourable mention of white kryptonite. It has the power to destroy all plant life. Designed, one supposes, to agent the schemes of garden haters.
Monday, November 21, 2005
book dreams
what's the equivalent in publishing of blowing your knee out in basketball? that's what happened to me. i was like a playground publishing star. i had a wicked crossover, could nail the three and displayed flashes of a jordan-esque touch in acquisitions. But circumstances prevented me from making it in the big leagues*. now i work for public broadcasting. which is like the same as the broken athlete who opens his own used car lot.
But things have changed. Call it a comeback if you want. See, I have always been confident that I'd make an all-star caliber sixth man. Sort of like a Kevin McHale-meets-Gary Fisketjohn type. Picture it. Like, the editor-in-chief would be your starting center; they're good for banging and rebounding and intimidation. The face of the team. You need the double double from this position. From there, the editor-at-large would function as your high-flying two guard. Lots of scoring, but little in the way of defense. Though they shine at launch parties. The point guard is your managing editor. Must be organized and know how to distribute the rock. The senior editor is the veteran power forward. This spot supports and covers for the center and produces 20 and 10 a night, plus a half-dozen strong selling non-fiction titles over the year. I guess at the three spot you've got the slightly intoxicated yet charming imprint editor. Sort of a freelancer within the system. Usually has a specialty, like perimeter defense or new-young-mind fiction, but you can't really depend on them to carry the entire list/team. Then you've got the bench players. A slew of associate editors, publicists, copy editors and the like. The coach of course is the publisher.
But the sixth man. The sixth man is like the wildcard. The magic that gets you through the first round of the playoffs and then makes the wizard buzzer-beater to send the team to the Giller Awards. He's playing for the team because he's all heart, but he also knows his contract depends on making the most of his minutes. Maybe the Small Forward is too deep into his cups this season. Hasn't had a bestseller, his shooting percentage is down. Whatever. But he's off his game this year, the Coach is cutting his minutes, and thus arrives the opportunity that the Sixth Man has been waiting for. You know, he's in his thirties now. Not many seasons left in the old dog. He squandered chances on bigger teams under brighter lights, but now he's matured. He's the silver fox. The golden bear. He's ready. He's re-hab'd. He wants the rock. He's feeling it again. Book dreams.
*more like, not exactly...
But things have changed. Call it a comeback if you want. See, I have always been confident that I'd make an all-star caliber sixth man. Sort of like a Kevin McHale-meets-Gary Fisketjohn type. Picture it. Like, the editor-in-chief would be your starting center; they're good for banging and rebounding and intimidation. The face of the team. You need the double double from this position. From there, the editor-at-large would function as your high-flying two guard. Lots of scoring, but little in the way of defense. Though they shine at launch parties. The point guard is your managing editor. Must be organized and know how to distribute the rock. The senior editor is the veteran power forward. This spot supports and covers for the center and produces 20 and 10 a night, plus a half-dozen strong selling non-fiction titles over the year. I guess at the three spot you've got the slightly intoxicated yet charming imprint editor. Sort of a freelancer within the system. Usually has a specialty, like perimeter defense or new-young-mind fiction, but you can't really depend on them to carry the entire list/team. Then you've got the bench players. A slew of associate editors, publicists, copy editors and the like. The coach of course is the publisher.
But the sixth man. The sixth man is like the wildcard. The magic that gets you through the first round of the playoffs and then makes the wizard buzzer-beater to send the team to the Giller Awards. He's playing for the team because he's all heart, but he also knows his contract depends on making the most of his minutes. Maybe the Small Forward is too deep into his cups this season. Hasn't had a bestseller, his shooting percentage is down. Whatever. But he's off his game this year, the Coach is cutting his minutes, and thus arrives the opportunity that the Sixth Man has been waiting for. You know, he's in his thirties now. Not many seasons left in the old dog. He squandered chances on bigger teams under brighter lights, but now he's matured. He's the silver fox. The golden bear. He's ready. He's re-hab'd. He wants the rock. He's feeling it again. Book dreams.
*more like, not exactly...
Sunday, November 20, 2005
super-symmetry
You are the scientist and the matter,
the theorist and the quark.
You are the simplest subatomic particle
that when examined
reveals only complex and auxiliary mysteries.
Like the quark you exist in six varieties:
up,
down,
top,
bottom,
strange and charm.
Like the theorist
you construct and deconstruct
the building blocks of your hadrons
endlessly, like Sisyphus.
You are your own elegant universe.
You are quantum incarnate.
zee
the theorist and the quark.
You are the simplest subatomic particle
that when examined
reveals only complex and auxiliary mysteries.
Like the quark you exist in six varieties:
up,
down,
top,
bottom,
strange and charm.
Like the theorist
you construct and deconstruct
the building blocks of your hadrons
endlessly, like Sisyphus.
You are your own elegant universe.
You are quantum incarnate.
zee
Saturday, November 19, 2005
lie down cub
I’m trying to make you a CD, right now. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Slowly assembling the bits of music I have. It’s a frustrating limitation. And for this CD, there can be no limits. I want to put everything on it. All songs. Not just the ones I’ve got. All of them. It would be the complete mixed CD. It would last forever but still have endings. We'd never have to make up our minds.
I can’t stand how good I Walk The Line is. So resolved. The inmates howling. Then later, ‘I shot a man in Reno/Just to watch him die’.
Now I’m on the phone with you and you just said “I can’t wait !”
I thought a good way to arrange the songs would be ascending, then descending, order of key. Aminor, Bmajor, Cmajor etc. Or whatever. I’m not sure how keys work exactly. I’ve always just put my fingers where it sounds good.
We floated the idea of going to Dunnville. But I can’t decide on even one song yet. Each one is a doorway, each one is the veldt. Without the lions. Ok, with the lions too.
It seems I’ll just have to copy Nebraska in its entirety.
Sorry, the key thing is out of reach. I really wanted it to happen. But that’s what makes me average.
The CD should be about you, but right now it’s a huge struggle. The fog of me. Maybe I’m too concerned about plot here. And what will be the hidden track? And what about songs I know you already know? Do they go on as clever tugs, the shared stories you forgot I knew? Or is it a combo CD? A challenge, then a balm. Definitely Fade to Black goes on. But this first one is killing me.
I got the first one. Now I’m staring out the long window imagining you're driving on the highway with this song playing. Awesome. There’s no way to follow it. ... I’m gonna’ try.
Christ, this is like Fermat’s Enigma. Just reeled off six in a row and then my proofs collapsed.
It’s criminal that I don’t own any Credence. Not even a Greatest Hits. Shame. And my Roy Orbison is scratched and I don’t have the Kings of Leon. Or Iron Maiden.
Thirty, desultory minutes have expired, and then suddenly a wave of purpose. If only you knew the bold move I am considering!
Finally, I had to just bear down and get it done. So this is it. This is the CD. Full-on 80 minutes. Maxed it out, for you. I hope you like it. I’m working on the second volume as I write this. The first song is killing me. You’ll be here any minute. Maybe we can listen to it in your car...
I can’t stand how good I Walk The Line is. So resolved. The inmates howling. Then later, ‘I shot a man in Reno/Just to watch him die’.
Now I’m on the phone with you and you just said “I can’t wait !”
I thought a good way to arrange the songs would be ascending, then descending, order of key. Aminor, Bmajor, Cmajor etc. Or whatever. I’m not sure how keys work exactly. I’ve always just put my fingers where it sounds good.
We floated the idea of going to Dunnville. But I can’t decide on even one song yet. Each one is a doorway, each one is the veldt. Without the lions. Ok, with the lions too.
It seems I’ll just have to copy Nebraska in its entirety.
Sorry, the key thing is out of reach. I really wanted it to happen. But that’s what makes me average.
The CD should be about you, but right now it’s a huge struggle. The fog of me. Maybe I’m too concerned about plot here. And what will be the hidden track? And what about songs I know you already know? Do they go on as clever tugs, the shared stories you forgot I knew? Or is it a combo CD? A challenge, then a balm. Definitely Fade to Black goes on. But this first one is killing me.
I got the first one. Now I’m staring out the long window imagining you're driving on the highway with this song playing. Awesome. There’s no way to follow it. ... I’m gonna’ try.
Christ, this is like Fermat’s Enigma. Just reeled off six in a row and then my proofs collapsed.
It’s criminal that I don’t own any Credence. Not even a Greatest Hits. Shame. And my Roy Orbison is scratched and I don’t have the Kings of Leon. Or Iron Maiden.
Thirty, desultory minutes have expired, and then suddenly a wave of purpose. If only you knew the bold move I am considering!
Finally, I had to just bear down and get it done. So this is it. This is the CD. Full-on 80 minutes. Maxed it out, for you. I hope you like it. I’m working on the second volume as I write this. The first song is killing me. You’ll be here any minute. Maybe we can listen to it in your car...
Friday, November 18, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
papen was a girl in my mind...
it was really great. but if i could, i would have had charles lose the gun in a struggle; it goes off severing richard's femoral artery. henry comes up with it and immediately plugs francis in the gut and in the neck. charles and henry talk about it; charles admits to sleeping with his sister but camilla seems detached. Richard is bleeding slowly to death. Then henry, to doubly spite charles, puts two in camilla and then the last one for himself. Charles, stark mental, strangles the rest of richard, seals himself in the garage with the running sedan and slips away on monoxide.but the way she had it happen was really great too.
Friday, November 11, 2005
pushes for disaster
No new pictures today, though that was the plan. Forgot the camera at home. Batteries do not 'die' in other languages. A Czech girl told me so over lunch. I really like English when it arrives by translation. Afterwards, I bought laundry detergent, dishwasher detergent, brown paper bags, a bottle opener and incense called "guilty". Premium incense.At home, I thought for awhile about what modest mouse song i like the best. Cowboy Dan? Dark Center of the Universe? As far as I know, Isaac Brock has not had his teeth whitened. Whatever. I downloaded an email from FW who was recently assigned to Krackow and can't get over the fact that his apartment has square pillows. He's eating a lot of beets, the note said. There's not much else. FW thinks the random is charming. Since my grandparents died, I haven't eaten beets or borscht or any of it. A whole food culture died with them. They were Ukranian; the old country. They washed all their clothes by hand. When my dad bought a washer and dryer we would wash their clothes at our house every Sunday. My mom can speak Ukranian. I cannot. I can only say "Good day missus", "I don't want any" and "I don't know", plus a few foods. But I can't spell them.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
troglodyte.
i'm the oracle, don't you know that by now?yes, but you understand why i needed to see him right?
no, not really. i gave you the facts. why do you always insist on the irrational? this isn't mathematics. there's no solution.
you don't understand. i know he's lying to me. i just want to know what he's lying about.
well, look. you're ten years between accomplishments. you're up, what did you say? 15 pounds. you look like shit. you cut your own hair. what do you want from me? you keep asking me the same questions expecting a different answer. that's pathological. you know that right?
i'll get back to you.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
looking at guitars
...he sees himself as the jeremy irons character in The Mission.
i haven't seen that movie.
oh. well, it's like, every guy has an angle or a gimmick. his is the 'reluctant priest/warrior' thing.
i have no idea what you're talking about.
...
are you hungry? let's get lunch.
i haven't seen that movie.
oh. well, it's like, every guy has an angle or a gimmick. his is the 'reluctant priest/warrior' thing.
i have no idea what you're talking about.
...
are you hungry? let's get lunch.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
futilitarians
now accepting wagers on the raptors' record through the first 20 games:
bp: 2 wins, 18 losses
cb: 5 wins, 15 losses
jz: 4 wins, 16 losses
s69: 0 wins, 20 losses
cs: 3 wins, 17 losses
prizes to be announced.
bp: 2 wins, 18 losses
cb: 5 wins, 15 losses
jz: 4 wins, 16 losses
s69: 0 wins, 20 losses
cs: 3 wins, 17 losses
prizes to be announced.
no messages
All you do is write down random words.
What’s your point?
Well, anyone can do that.
Sure.
Don't you read McSweeney's?
No.
What’s your point?
Well, anyone can do that.
Sure.
Don't you read McSweeney's?
No.
you're a good man, charlie brown
If even just once I could remember to close the top cupboard door before i bend down to pick something up. my head is killing me. i am so angry! argh! stupid cupboard door! Right on the corner!
Monday, November 07, 2005
Saturday, November 05, 2005
...the par in party
Golf is pretty much finished this year. The last round, 113. Honestly, I was a little disappointed. Not in the course. Copper Creek, great. But I had high expectations of myself. I really wanted to shoot 110 tops. Instead, a nervous 54 on the front, and then the blow up on ten – errant tee shot, OB; subsequently dump the third into the pond and then a couple of toppers (lifted my head) and a three-putt (anger). Didn’t regain my composure until the 14th(though on the 12th I got lucky and got out with a bogey, which I'll take). So, 113. A terrible score, but not one of those angry 113s. It was great. Even with five lost balls. Two on one hole. In the same pond. I don’t really keep GIRs, fairways, or putts on my card. It’s enough right now just to keep track of the number of strokes, there are so many. As evidenced*:
But, as far as the overall game, this was a good year. Sixteen-and-a-half rounds. Seven different courses. Three countries. One new golf bag. Plus, the new woods, that, as long as I remember to choke up to control the fade, will really help us hit more fairways, with distance, than ever before. When I look at them even, they just fill me with fierce happiness. And my butter knife putter, too, should get a bit of a mention. I know there has been miraculous innovation in putter technology, but i feel strong with the old-school blade. I will admit that I lipped a few out at first, and i admit there have been doubts. But together, we one-putted the first three holes at Copper Creek, didn’t we my friend? Yes we did.
Anyways, to say goodbye to the season, one last fling with the clubs, we drove out to Andy Bathgate with C a few days later. Most of the range has been closed down but we hit a couple hundred on the remaining piece. Gusty conditions, but mild with top-shelf visibility. The soothing thrum of traffic off the 410. Felt real easy with the high irons, even rusty gap wedge. I don’t know why, but there is a tendency to chicken out with the wedges around the green during play.
The same shots (we visualize them in our mind when we practice) come off the club soft, with sober distance at the range. But then on the course we don't trust it, and so it dies or flies. It's hell. So, that’s my goal for next year: become deadly, in close around the green. I’m sick of giving up strokes because of my short game. This should be my specialty.
Afterwards, we went through the carwash. Improved Regular Wash, $8.99. There’s also The Basic and The Works. But there's just something about the phrase “Improved Regular” that feels comfortable to me. Maybe it has something to do with the drinking. Or second-hand jean jackets. I'm not sure.*card unsigned!
Friday, November 04, 2005
one is the loneliest number
XXX XXXX X XXX XX XXX XXXXXX XXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XX XXX XXXXX X XXXX XX
cellular memory...
I think if i was a doctor i would explore cellular surgery as an answer to curing sadness. Because I think that our emotions create, or adhere or somehow are physicalized (?)into our cellular structure; especially feelings like loss and love and anxiety, the hard and strong emotions. Sort of like how my friend TJ won't eat meat because he believes that animals retain a cellular memory of the awfullness of their cooped and wretchedly farmed lives. And when you consume this tortured flesh, he told me, you consume all the pain and anguish the creature carried inside it. Just like mercury or PCPs. So, I think that if you could isolate the cells that are causing the sadness or pain inside a person, you could then excise them under the knife. Because you sure can't think your way out of this shit.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
pace of asses
tonight, i intercepted an agitated lady attempting to steal a lawn chair from my backyard. our conversation was entirely random. it reminded me for some reason of a little while ago, i was crossing a street when a bouquet of flowers slapped down in front of me. I looked up and there was a woman on a balcony pointing at a man with raised hands, about four floors high. She clambered over the railing in her heels, holding onto it, but lolling out and obviously distressed. People around me stepped over the flowers and didn't look up. There was an exchange and then he went for her arms and she caved and they went inside together.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
three tilt warning
There's an artform to pinball. It involves more than just dropping coins and pressing the bumper buttons. You've got to know how to handle the tilt. You've got to understand how to lag shots and cradle and fight the side sewers. You've got to be able to hit consistent jackpots, roll the ramps, repeat the loops, knock down pressure shots and generate multi-balls on demand. You need intensity, focus. Pure being. You got to feel slices. These things are self-evident to anyone who has played enough. But for the uninitiated, pinball can seem like an archaic, almost luddite-esque experience. No nuance, garish, loud, heavy. Not at all like an i-pod.While I can't deny that these things are true, I will say that pinball has more soul and more jazz than playstation or xbox ever will. I've been p-balling for about two years now. I mostly play at one place; which isn't so bad because they change the table often enough. NASCAR is the game of the moment. I like it. It's very kinetic, very fast. And you can really bounce the thing around without danger or tilts. I play hard on the table. I like to kick the legs and bang it forward. I'm not a table breaker or anything. I know what it is to lose a bonus on a tilt. It sucks. But I'm willing to take the chance to save a ball, you know?
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
stranger dynamic
I have only ever asked of God one thing: to make my enemies ridiculous. And he did.Voltaire wrote that. I couldn't. Maybe it's not related, but i have always preferred funerals over weddings. At least with funerals, there's no need to pretend the future is bright.
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