However it originated, though, the usage of “because-noun” (and of “because-adjective” and “because-gerund”) is one of those distinctly of-the-Internet, by-the-Internet movements of language. It conveys focus (linguist Gretchen McCulloch: “It means something like ‘I’m so busy being totally absorbed by X that I don’t need to explain further, and you should know about this because it’s a completely valid incredibly important thing to be doing’”). It conveys brevity (Carey: “It has a snappy, jocular feel, with a syntactic jolt that allows long explanations to be forgone” “It has a snappy, jocular feel, with a syntactic jolt that allows long explanations to be forgone”).
But it also conveys a certain universality. When I say, for example, “The talks broke down because politics,” I’m not just describing a circumstance. I’m also describing a category. I’m making grand and yet ironized claims, announcing a situation and commenting on that situation at the same time. I’m offering an explanation and rolling my eyes — and I’m able to do it with one little word. Because variety. Because Internet. Because language.
The wind nibbles at his fingers, and the rain closes around him like sheets. The tiny boat is rocking beneath him, uneasy, fidgeting in the waves. The rod is tight in the man’s hands, and his belly is hollow. He’s hungry, hungry and relieved as his arms strain against the pull of the line. It’s going to be a big one, he thinks. He might be able to eat this for a week. As the cold shakes his jaw bone, he thinks of the smell of hot, fresh fish filling his bare little cabin, and grins against the darkness. It’s a heave-ho, heave-ho, as he reels the line in to the boat. And that’s when he sees it. White in the moonlight, rushing towards him, hollow eyes and bared teeth. The rod drops to the bottom of the boat with a bang he can’t hear over the wind, and he scrambles, slips against wet wood, tumbles down with the rod. He knows it’s not hunger or exhaustion, he knows it’s not a trick of his mind – there’s a thing in the water, a something, not a fish, but something all bones cutting through the water, straight for the boat.
He clambers for wet oars, struggles to get them in line, and begins rowing against the tide with all his might, battling through the sea’s rough pull, biceps straining beneath his wet furs, his coat of seal leather, breath huffing from his lungs in big sharp gasps. Terror floods his face – the thing! He thinks he can hear it clattering against the side of the boat! He imagines bony fingers climbing in, grasping for purchase. The thing! He whips his head around, and there’s no such thing. Just darkness and rain hammering down like silver arrows. Apprehensive, he drops the oars, and crawls to the back of the boat, looking slowly, carefully, into the water. His heart drops to his belly and it’s there! With the hook in its mouth. He smiles to himself, embarrassed and chortling into the dark as he reels it in. In his arms lie the neck bones, shoulder bones, and rib bones of a woman. It has a woman’s spine, a woman’s face, a woman’s arms and hands. But below the hips are the spindly, sharp bones of a fish. He drags her long tail into the boat, and she’s nearly the length of it, six feet of woman bones and fish bones.
What I’m really terrified of is leading an average, ordinary life with a regular job and an invariable routine, planned holidays, an average household, fixed responsibilities and not doing anything different to be remembered by.
i’ve reached the point in my life where this sounds lovely. regular job, regular income, rest, sleep, food, comfortable. only being stressed about not being stressed.
- ellis writes AP as a series of brochues, handbooks, guides, catalogues, and magazines; the work behaves as a scrapbook, the purpose of that scrapbook being that nothing exists beneath the surface - the lack of authenticity, the absence of substance, participates in the illusion of a stable, solid body or self, which is exemplified in the liquid identity of the characters (especially bateman). this process is a cycle, as bateman seeks solace in the classification and taxonomy of music as a result of the nebulous nature of his reality and self
“We frame what we desire; we create a space and fill it.”—Jennifer Davis Michael. “Framing Eve: Reading Blake’s Illustrations.” Women Reading William Blake. ed. Helen Bruder. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2007. 164. (via semperaugustus)
i just worked a ten hour shift and i have to be at a staff meeting in an hour and a half and i haven’t slept and last time i ate it was a burrito at 1pm yesterday and i’ve watched two episodes of glee instead of sleeping and adam lambert is one of the finest singers on the planet and they had them singing what does the fox say and all i want to do is eat scrambled eggs and have a shower before the meeting but i know i should probably try to grab an hour’s nap idk
The first time the woman goes to the cabin it’s for two days. The two days become three, and the three become four. Her phone runs out of battery on the fourth day, but her voicemail inbox was already full long before then. She watches the little red warning light flash, and flash, and then stop. And she breathes.
There are 365 emails in her inbox, unread, and she doesn’t even know, and she doesn’t even care. All of them have little red ‘urgent’ flags, but she thinks that’s all a matter of perspective, really.
On the fifth day she runs out of clothes. She thought she had packed too many to start with, sensible jeans and designer sandals and stiff white tshirts. She gathers them in her arms and takes them to the little slick trickling lake around the back of the cabin. Leaves crunch between her toes and the sandals’ worn sole. The air is crisp, and the sky is the same grey as her poor shirts as she soaks them in running water so cold it hurts the bones in her fingers. Her manicure chips on smooth round pebbles, little flecks of red like little urgent flags careening down the stream. Tadpoles skitter and dive amongst the folds of her shirts, and hide in the seams. She scrubs them with fresh water and expensive shower gel, foam riding up her arms, and the clean air smells of lemon and sweat.
On the sixth day she runs out of food. Her car is parked somewhere she would forget about, hidden beneath canopies of leafy trees, probably already covered in bird nests and acorns, She eats her last can of baked beans cold. They slither down her throat, hard as pebbles, sweet sauce dripping down her chin.
Somewhere, in a land far, far away, people in suits are gathered around her desk with people in uniforms. Or at least it used to be her desk. Her name is still shiny on the plaque on the door, and her exquisite fountain pens are still tucked in the drawer, and one of her suits is still hanging from a formidable mahogany wardrobe, but it all feels so far away. She struggles to swallow her food, her tshirt still damp against her goosebumped body.
On the seventh day she lies naked in the sun. The leaves, golden and red and half decomposing tickle her back, and get stuck in her hair. She feels ashamed and proud and invigorated all at once. Her heart trembles beneath her ribs. Unseen, she thinks, as yellow eyes stare at her from the warm brown shadows of a bush.
Physics says: go to sleep. Of course
you’re tired. Every atom in you
has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes
nonstop from mitosis to now.
Quit tapping your feet. They’ll dance
inside themselves without you. Go to sleep.
Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch
by inch America is giving itself
to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.
Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow,
Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle,
Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so
Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town
History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.
”—Albert Goldbarth, “The Sciences Sing a Lullaby” (via oofpoetry)
“Whenever I’m asked why Southern writers particularly have a penchant for writing about freaks, I say it is because we are still able to recognize one. To be able to recognize a freak, you have to have some conception of the whole man, and in the South the general conception of man is still, in the main, theological. That is a large statement, and it is dangerous to make it, for almost anything you say about Southern belief can be denied in the next breath with equal propriety. But approaching the subject from the standpoint of the writer, I think it is safe to say that while the South is hardly Christ-centered, it is most certainly Christ-haunted. The Southerner, who isn’t convinced of it, is very much afraid that he may have been formed in the image and likeness of God. Ghosts can be very fierce and instructive. They cast strange shadows, particularly in our literature. In any case, it is when the freak can be sensed as a figure for our essential displacement that he attains some depth in literature.”—Flannery O’Connor (via thatdanielgardner)
1. Stop faking your fucking orgasms. Society already tells young men that they run the fucking universe - if they can’t turn your cunt into a shooting star then for god’s sake, let them know about it.
2. Once you’ve stopped faking your fucking orgasms, use this newfound honesty throughout the rest of your life - stop ordering coffee you don’t actually like; stop sitting at a desk and allowing people to treat you like shit in the hopes that a meek attitude will earn you a promotion (it won’t); stop telling people they can finish your food when you’re not actually done yet. These may seem petty, but they add up, just like every orgasm you didn’t actually get to have.
3. If you wanna dance all night, dance all fucking night. Dance all night even if you have work in the morning. The worst that will happen is you’ll drink RedBull all day and look like a zombie - pass it off as a head cold to the real zombies you work with and flick through the embarrassing photos you’re being tagged in as you pretend to take a shit for some peace and quiet. I promise, you’ll remember dancing all night in ten years, not the suspicious way your boss looked at you that morning.
4. If your ass looks big in that, that’s a good thing.
5. You will never be as young as you are this second. Embrace it.
6. Embrace the fact that you’re going to get older. Ask your boyfriend if he will still love you when you’re seventy and your tits are down to your knees. Look forward to this time - seventy year old women are allowed to do pretty much whatever they want, and no-one can stop them. You can carry candy in your bag and not share it with a single soul. You can stay home all day and cross-stitch expletives onto handkerchiefs for your grandchildren and slip them under the table out of sight of the people you raised. You can drink whisky at 10am. Every phase of your life is going to be amazing for different reasons. Embrace that.
7. A lot of people will pretend to love Bukowski. Don’t pretend to love Bukowski if you don’t love Bukowski. It’s overplayed and no-one will mind if you actually like Virginia Andrews instead - the people who do mind are boring.
“I’m a witch woman; high on tobacco and holy water. I’m a woman delighted with her disasters. They give me something to do. A profession of sorts. I have the magic of words.”—Sandra Cisneros (via mirroir)