Sick Boy was right
Sick Boy got it right. Even more impressive, he got it right in the first trimester of the movie.
What am i talking about? Here:
Sick Boy: It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life.
Renton: What do you mean?
Sick Boy: Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed...
Renton: Some of his solo stuff's not bad.
Sick Boy: No, it's not bad, but it's not great either. And in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite.
Renton: So who else?
Sick Boy: Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley...
Renton: OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make?
Sick Boy: All I'm trying to do is help you understand that The Name of The Rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory.
Renton: What about The Untouchables?
Sick Boy: I don't rate that at all.
Renton: Despite the Academy Award?
Sick Boy: That means fuck all. Its a sympathy vote.
Renton: Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it?
Sick Boy: Yeah.
Renton: That's your theory?
Sick Boy: Yeah. Beautifully fucking illustrated.
- Trainspotting
At one point in this wretched life, i realized that there are some things that inevitably travel on a downhill trajectory. For me, it's the concept of being fascinating. I realized lately i haven't been my usual fascinating self. For quite a number of years now.
Like this blog i barely manage to upkeep the past couple of years, i find myself relying more and more on postmodern pap and really old lyrics to keep my posts count up. Should a casual stranger happen to come across my blog without knowing who i am, he or she will soon realize after two or three entries that is nothing here or in my life that is remotely original nor interesting.
I guess age does that. And the burden of having to work for a living. And the need to adjust to a new set of rules as dictated by the directions you choose. Adult. Jobholder. Husband. Father. Community Member. Each new role brings about lesser choices and new constraints on your spontaneity.
Then, at the end of it all, we can't hack it anymore. I can almost hear Sick Boy laughing at me.
I'm not saying i lost it at this point. I just realized that without me knowing it, i am slowly losing the things that made you who you are. the ability to carry a conversation, to sustain interest, to maintain a decent train of thought.
At the height of the ice-carvings empire, i think i was blessed with the ability to carry a conversation from beginning to end. With the audience in full attention and alert for your next sentence. It doesn't matter if it's the latest science discovery, the hip pop culture reference, a resurrected literary idea, or unmitigated crap. With a few well-crafted sentences, you can cup the world in your palms, and nobody would question when was the last time you washed your hands.
Used to be that way. Now, friends get genuinely surprised that i post an entry. And nobody reacts anymore. a hundred-plus posts later, i am reduced to half-cryptic song lyrics references, astute observations on daily routines, and milestones.
So, should i fear the inevitable? That one day, we may as well pack it in?
I guess not yet. I may be losing it, but i haven't lost it all yet. A few sparks
every now and then can make up for the mindless filler in between. After all, my life is still fairly interesting. I just have to accept that 90% is unbloggable - either too interesting or too uninteresting to write or converse about.
Besides, it's happening to everybody else. The downward spiral of my communication skills may be in sync to the gradual erosion of my friends' empathy abilities. in short, i could write the most brilliant pieces, but everybody could care less -- and lesser every day.
Therefore, it's not just me. It's all of you.
Beautifully fucking illustrated.
What am i talking about? Here:
Sick Boy: It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life.
Renton: What do you mean?
Sick Boy: Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed...
Renton: Some of his solo stuff's not bad.
Sick Boy: No, it's not bad, but it's not great either. And in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite.
Renton: So who else?
Sick Boy: Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley...
Renton: OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make?
Sick Boy: All I'm trying to do is help you understand that The Name of The Rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory.
Renton: What about The Untouchables?
Sick Boy: I don't rate that at all.
Renton: Despite the Academy Award?
Sick Boy: That means fuck all. Its a sympathy vote.
Renton: Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it?
Sick Boy: Yeah.
Renton: That's your theory?
Sick Boy: Yeah. Beautifully fucking illustrated.
- Trainspotting
At one point in this wretched life, i realized that there are some things that inevitably travel on a downhill trajectory. For me, it's the concept of being fascinating. I realized lately i haven't been my usual fascinating self. For quite a number of years now.
Like this blog i barely manage to upkeep the past couple of years, i find myself relying more and more on postmodern pap and really old lyrics to keep my posts count up. Should a casual stranger happen to come across my blog without knowing who i am, he or she will soon realize after two or three entries that is nothing here or in my life that is remotely original nor interesting.
I guess age does that. And the burden of having to work for a living. And the need to adjust to a new set of rules as dictated by the directions you choose. Adult. Jobholder. Husband. Father. Community Member. Each new role brings about lesser choices and new constraints on your spontaneity.
Then, at the end of it all, we can't hack it anymore. I can almost hear Sick Boy laughing at me.
I'm not saying i lost it at this point. I just realized that without me knowing it, i am slowly losing the things that made you who you are. the ability to carry a conversation, to sustain interest, to maintain a decent train of thought.
At the height of the ice-carvings empire, i think i was blessed with the ability to carry a conversation from beginning to end. With the audience in full attention and alert for your next sentence. It doesn't matter if it's the latest science discovery, the hip pop culture reference, a resurrected literary idea, or unmitigated crap. With a few well-crafted sentences, you can cup the world in your palms, and nobody would question when was the last time you washed your hands.
Used to be that way. Now, friends get genuinely surprised that i post an entry. And nobody reacts anymore. a hundred-plus posts later, i am reduced to half-cryptic song lyrics references, astute observations on daily routines, and milestones.
So, should i fear the inevitable? That one day, we may as well pack it in?
I guess not yet. I may be losing it, but i haven't lost it all yet. A few sparks
every now and then can make up for the mindless filler in between. After all, my life is still fairly interesting. I just have to accept that 90% is unbloggable - either too interesting or too uninteresting to write or converse about.
Besides, it's happening to everybody else. The downward spiral of my communication skills may be in sync to the gradual erosion of my friends' empathy abilities. in short, i could write the most brilliant pieces, but everybody could care less -- and lesser every day.
Therefore, it's not just me. It's all of you.
Beautifully fucking illustrated.
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