Friends,
We live in a deceptive world. In the year 1837, you'd have seen the original title of this missive (Final Resolution) crossed out and replaced with the title above. Amidst the pen strokes you might even pick up on the sureness with which the original title was eschewed (a decisive eastward stroke). The keenest eye would detect the sense of hesitation furled up in the single downward line after "Part." Not a shaky line, but a curious one.
If we lived even further back in time, when parchment was a luxury and literacy was magic, you'd quickly realize you're reading a palimpsest. And that lurking behind the critical meta-analysis before you – in letters faded and forced out – was a letter of resignation. A suicide note. A quit.
But fortunately, thanks to electricity, the semi-conductor, and the backspace key, you are none the wiser. And the truth of this original post, this "final resolution," shall remain forever unresolved. You cannot seen the shiver of the cursive, nor the unnatural spaces between the diffident words. And moreover, instead of fear, you feel hope. Because part one promises a part two; and thus the careful reader will instead look forward to a final resolution, rather than the final resolution.
I need to stop posting sober. And exercising more.
Harvey
Tuesday, December 31
Wednesday, December 11
A solid green hardcover notebook
Harvey Kornbluth was born on 14 January 1982, in Toronto, Ontario. This makes him Canadian, and though there is technically nothing wrong with this, he is compelled to apologise for the fact anyway. For the convenience of his parents and the medical staff involved with his birth, Harvey agreed to be born shortly before lunch, at 11:37am. On the day he was born, corn dogs were being served in the hospital cafeteria, but unfortunately they were out of mustard. Somehow, Harvey was forever affected by this error of omission.
His parents, Darryl and Celica Kornbluth, were both killed in a car accident while driving back from synagogue. Though Harvey would never know this, his parents were arguing about the merits of moisturized facial tissue, when, distracted, his father plunged the car into a river. As such, Harvey was raised by his homosexual uncle and his half-Asian lover. They taught him about musicals, Abba and oxycontin addiction.
Harvey was a peculiar child. He was prone to carrying around blank index cards and a copy of the Koran. His favourite cereal was Froot Loops which he ate with too much milk. He always carried an umbrella, even on the hottest summer days. He looked at the stars at night and considered their role in his life in a non-philosophical way. He asked a lot of pointed questions to his peers ("Would you murder a parent to save Santa, and which one?"), and wrote scathing letters to authority figures. In one such missive he wrote:
His adolescence was marked by casual smoking, cold showers and suicide notes placed in public spaces. His threat to self-immolate — which was painted on to the rear of a portable classroom in purple tee-shirt puff paint — was unproven. Nevertheless, it prompted his teachers and caregivers to enroll Harvey in a school for the mentally deranged.
At the institute, Harvey consumed Greek yogurt and learned to ride the unicycle and wrote stream-of-consciousness poetry about the other inmates. In his time, he made only one friend: a tall and charismatic redhead named Miranda, who would shower with her clothes on, and pass Harvey notes at lunch, and scream herself to sleep every single night. Miranda was cured after she smashed a watermelon into pieces with a foam-bat (anger expulsion therapy), and she left the institute. Harvey was alone and depressed.
He worked through his troubled feelings in a solid green hardcover notebook and came to the inescapable conclusion that the world and all the things in it were projections of his mind. Content that this was the only piece of knowledge he could wholeheartedly deem true, Harvey felt a vague sense of responsibility for the figments of his imagination and thirsted no longer — or at least a little bit less — for his own self-initiated demise.
Satisfied with Harvey's new-found (albeit disturbingly flawed) belief in the value of living, the institute released him. It was spring and he was an adult. The first thing Harvey did was find a prostitute and pay her for sex. The second was to procure an umbrella.
Many years later he started this blog, and shares with you those those dark corners of his notebook: the musings of a solipsistic inmate.
His parents, Darryl and Celica Kornbluth, were both killed in a car accident while driving back from synagogue. Though Harvey would never know this, his parents were arguing about the merits of moisturized facial tissue, when, distracted, his father plunged the car into a river. As such, Harvey was raised by his homosexual uncle and his half-Asian lover. They taught him about musicals, Abba and oxycontin addiction.
Harvey was a peculiar child. He was prone to carrying around blank index cards and a copy of the Koran. His favourite cereal was Froot Loops which he ate with too much milk. He always carried an umbrella, even on the hottest summer days. He looked at the stars at night and considered their role in his life in a non-philosophical way. He asked a lot of pointed questions to his peers ("Would you murder a parent to save Santa, and which one?"), and wrote scathing letters to authority figures. In one such missive he wrote:
Mr. Coley,
If it is in fact the case that we are not meant to eat the Play-doh, then I beseech you to explain why it is so delicious. Your humble servant,
Harvey Kornbluth
At the institute, Harvey consumed Greek yogurt and learned to ride the unicycle and wrote stream-of-consciousness poetry about the other inmates. In his time, he made only one friend: a tall and charismatic redhead named Miranda, who would shower with her clothes on, and pass Harvey notes at lunch, and scream herself to sleep every single night. Miranda was cured after she smashed a watermelon into pieces with a foam-bat (anger expulsion therapy), and she left the institute. Harvey was alone and depressed.
He worked through his troubled feelings in a solid green hardcover notebook and came to the inescapable conclusion that the world and all the things in it were projections of his mind. Content that this was the only piece of knowledge he could wholeheartedly deem true, Harvey felt a vague sense of responsibility for the figments of his imagination and thirsted no longer — or at least a little bit less — for his own self-initiated demise.
Satisfied with Harvey's new-found (albeit disturbingly flawed) belief in the value of living, the institute released him. It was spring and he was an adult. The first thing Harvey did was find a prostitute and pay her for sex. The second was to procure an umbrella.
Many years later he started this blog, and shares with you those those dark corners of his notebook: the musings of a solipsistic inmate.
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