MaraBlogging #1
this is probably going to be a recurring theme in the coming weeks, months, and (hopefully not) years. the setting is a Marathon Oil Corporation headquarters. the reason for my being here is work related. the rationalization for my being here is something along the lines of personal and private humiliation; oh and the girls are generally very pretty, too.
i am currently typing from a little corner of the world, known to many as Flag City USA, yes, thats right, its Findlay, Ohio. just off I-75, an hour or so south of Toledo, which pretty much means the middle of Ohio, which then also pretty much means the middle of nowhere, or maybe too threateningly close to the bible-belt, depending on the sort of language you prefer.
sure, i can’t argue that the downtown itself, a whopping two or three blocks, is very much adorable; in that way that all super christian, borderline-poor-but-dont- -seem-to-care sorts of areas always are. but that doesnt mean that im not totally bored here.
… because i am …
there is always a sick facination, though, with the idea of what it would really be like to have grown up here; where the main intersection is a meeting of Main St and, yeah get this, Main Cross St. and you can stay on this obligatory Main St. for quite a while (believe me), traveling past the quiant Dairy Queen, the occasional ‘rich’ area with very huge, very beautiful old homes in one direction and a number of local restaurants, like The Down Towner, and the University of Findlay in the other. but, truth be told, you always know in your heart that all it takes is one quick turn off this daring Main St. in either direction and you’ll plunge headfirst into the depths of rural Ohio. and fast, too. not 500 ft from almost any intersection, you find yourself surrounded by, well, nothing. i will say though, that in this part of the world, no sunset can ever go unnoticed. and none are worth missing
. . .
Of their own volition, or owing to an accident which has been chosen for them, they plunge lucidly and without complaining into a reproachful, ignominious element, like that into which love, if it is profound, hurls human beings. Erotic play discloses a nameless world which is revealed by the nocturnal language of lovers. Such language is not written down. It is whispered into the ear at night in a hoarse voice. At dawn it is forgotten.