Indie's Inanities

Soooo...if I get the chance to get on the computer at home today, I drew a comic strip in church yesterday (that was decidedly not churchy) because I was bored, and because Seth told me to, which I will scan and post up here, because I think it's delightfully tasteful and well-drawn.

But I shan't spoil the surprise until then.

Andrea's dog Princess died. Along with her childhood, and the hope that Jed will ever marry her.

Stupid Jed, I wish she'd just tell him. It's been three damn years, it's not her fault he's a little lot thick.

Sigh.

We made Su's bridal shower invitations. You have never seen anything so vomitatiously Victorian and over-the-top IN YOUR LIFE.

I'd wager.

I make a mean tom ka gai, I have discovered.


Somedays, even my lucky rocketship underpants don't seem to help.


Next week I get the house to meself while the fam goes up to stay in a condo at Bear Lake for vacation, because I said that the best vacation for me would not involve screaming children and lots of water. Last time I was Bear Lake I nearly drowned anyway. (Seeing as I was three...)

Besides, I have to be home, because I'm hosting Su's damn tea party at my freaking house.

And it's cheaper than paying to kennel the dog for a week.


That's about it. IG is officially emotionally empty. As you shall see by my comic, if I get to scan and show it to you. I have... da mad draw0r sk1llz.

I hate Mondays, Garfield.




(IGEdit: Typos.)
 
Song of the Week:

I Spy
by Pulp

I spy a boy, I spy a girl.
I spy the worst place in the world,
in the whole wide world.
Oh you didn't do bad,
you made it out,
I'm still stuck here oh but I'll get out.
Oh yeah I'll get out.
Can't you see the giant that walks around you seeing through your petty lives?
Do you think I do these things for real?
I do these things just so I survive.
And you know I will survive.
It may look to the untrained eye,
I'm sitting on my arse all day.
I'm biding time until I take you all on.
My Lords and Ladies,
I will prevail,
I cannot fail.
Cos I spy.
Oh I've got your numbers,
taken notes,
I know the ways your minds work;
I've studied.
And your minds are just the same as mine
except that you are clever swines,
you never let mask slip,
you never admit to it,
you're never hurried.
Oh no no no.
And every night I hone my plan
how I will get my satisfaction,
how I will blow your paradise away away, away.
Cos I spy.
And it's just like in the old days -
I used to compose my own critical notices in my head.
"The crowd gasp at Cocker's masterful control of the bicycle,
skilfully avoiding the dog turd next to the corner shop."
Imagining a blue plaque
above the place I first ever touched a girl's chest,
but hold on,
you've got to wait for the best.
You see you should take me seriously.
Very seriously indeed.
Cause I've been sleeping with your wife for the past sixteen weeks,
smoking your cigarettes,
drinking your brandy,
messing up the bed that you chose together.
And in all that time I just wanted you to come home unexpectedly one afternoon,
and catch us at it in the front room.
You see I spy for a living,
and I specialise in revenge,
on taking the things I know will cause you pain.
I can't help it,
I was dragged up.
My favourite parks are car parks,
grass is something you smoke,
birds are something you shag.
Take your "Year in Provence"
and shove it up your arse.
Your Ladbroke Grove looks turn me on, yeah.
With roach burns in designer dresses,
skin stretched tight over high cheek-bones,
and thousands of tiny dryness lines beating a path to the corners of your eyes.
And every night I hatch my plan,
it's not a case of woman v man.
It's more a case of haves against haven'ts.
And I just happen to have got what you need,
just exactly what you need yeah.
La la la la la la la la la la,
in the midnight hour.
La la la la la la la la la la,
I will come to you,
I will come to you,
I will take you from this sickness,
dinner parties and champagne,
I'll hold your body and make it sing again.
Come on - sing again,
let's sing again, oh yeah,
Cos I spy,
yes,
I spy.
I spy a boy,
and I spy a girl.
I spy the chance,
to change the world,
to change your world.
 
nowhere

it's going to be
like Springsteen on Lemonade,
you don't know

if he drinks it for real, but you
could see his serious

sip.

i don't want anybody who didn't walk
all the way to me, through black water,
buckwheat
and barbed wire.

i just want a smile,
to live
for. To give

be
fore and after i retire.

You look like reason enough to avoid

kiss me - never again
and say nothing.

be everything...to you
by Monday.

i'll be in Figi
by then.
 
sorted out

the pirate radio told us
what was going

down.

i listened to Jarvis and then,
pushed you out of my head.

elbowed you through
all my back doors.
keep on moving.

can't you see if i could be
anything i want to be
i would be you -

in a mirthless moment
find myself in your head
instead and peel back
the layers of thought you

wrap
wrapt me
in.

a treacherous game,
this hide-and-seek.

do you know the right
adverb?

it's not

simultaneously.
 
We merely knew
it wasn't human nature
to love
only what returns love

The world we find
only once...
in childhood.
The rest is memory.

Creation's source is
the death of beauty.
Two voices speak to me:
one your voice,
the other the actions in your hands.

You
are all that's wrong
with my life.
And I need you.
And I claim you.

You will have to crawl on all fours,
through the burning
to reach the bleeding.

What happens afterward
occurs far from the world, at a depth
where only the dream matters
and the bond with any one soul
is meaningless; you throw it away.

I wanted her life to be like a play
In which all the parts are sad parts.

I watch him turn to her
as though to speak her name
but silently, deep in her mouth--
At the window ledge,
once, twice,
a bird calls.
And then she stirs; her body
fills with his breath.

the burning wheel
passes gently over us.

the leaves turning, always the sick trees
going first, the dying turning
brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform
their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?
As empty now as at the first note.
Or was the point always
to continue without a sign?
 
He told me
sometimes I had made him cry.

He said I was the best conversation,
entirely unprovoked.

I don't want to write,
because I've been wanting to write of him.

I find myself in a kind of solitude,
where he is waiting for me.

I relearn a lingering
in once-familiar rooms.

There are some friends for solitudes;
some faces you only find in the dark.
 
20060717.jpg


We aim to please.
 
Sigh. I will go in to work early tomorrow morning and scan my comic through one of the bookpage scanners and then post it. If I can be sneaky enough.

Secret Hint #1: The title of it is "Can You Hear Me Now?"

I would also like to say that this:

What happens afterward
occurs far from the world, at a depth
where only the dream matters
and the bond with any one soul
is meaningless; you throw it away.

I wanted her life to be like a play
In which all the parts are sad parts.

I watch him turn to her
as though to speak her name
but silently, deep in her mouth--
At the window ledge,
once, twice,
a bird calls.
And then she stirs; her body
fills with his breath.
Click to expand...


...is some of the best stuff I've ever written. That's all. Goodnight now.
 
That is great. And I'm prayingt hat it'll be easier for you to deal with. Sorry you have to have such a crappy summer. Next year, my dear, your summer will be amazing. Nay... Fucking amazing.
 
I hate our sheetfeeders...they smeared it. But oh well, you can still see it.

I'm just waiting for imageshack to upload it...

do dee dooo...

*twiddles fingers*
 
:rofl:

I forgot.

:pinch:



Thanks! I'm glad you liked that.

More as they come. We shall see...I could stick other artwork up. If the scanner doesn't smear it. Mayhaps I'll save the qualitay stuff for the home scanner.
 
We laughed. Until we cried. And then we all sat around in the car and talked about how stupid boys are.

All in all, it was a success. ::thumbs up::
 
Some fiction I started writing today, because work is killing me. And not with kindness. I might add to this off and on, because I really need to practice some prose that is not a)confusingly autobiographical b) largely composed of song lyrics and c)lame. This might help with the first two.


Somewhere between Comedy Central and the History Channel, she slipped quietly out of herself and ran away.

It was another hot day; they were all hot days. Hot days of nothing new, no surrogate presence to continue the stale game of living for her. Another hot day of redundant contrition, and an overabundance of monotony.

This is not where the story begins.

You see, she stole a boat. It was a relatively small thing, once-white, now a sea-crusted and dented, bobbing symbol of neglect. She had fallen in love with it, inadvertently. Meandering down to the harbor in the late evening, when her thoughts felt closer to what they really were in the easier breeze and the long shadows, it thumped the side of the dock as she walked past. Made her turn, evaluate it. She sat on the wood, still warm from the set sun, and trailed her toe in the water, watching the boat.

It had always been there.

Repeatedly, she wandered down to it at night. Settled beside it when the day's bustle of people were nowhere to be seen, and the boat and her thoughts could convalesce together. In her way, she confided in it, rippling the secret longings of her heart toward it in the water.

This was how it convinced her to take it away.

The idea settled comfortably on her shoulder one indifferent evening when she noticed the peeling letters on the stern, probably once a brilliant and cloying robin's egg blue, now barely a browning grey:

Scriven
Click to expand...
 
hot

he feels like black suede, mysteriously
softkiss bareshoulder
like he's been reading poetry all day -
all mine.

i am becoming a believer
in the show,
versus tell
theory.

interpretation; adoration.

a poet stumbles. who
gave you this magnet?

this feels
as if it were my very oh
delicate fraud

i hear your dragons.

and how you've been longing to
breathe me
since you first noticed i was

on fire.
 
shoes_wire.0.jpg


toeing (week 57)

in parendicular
perpallels

a set of sixes,
or else, three pairs.

it tells you haphazardly,
what you can find
down the street.

oh, i know what it means.

at least, i know
what someone told me
it means.

which isn't quite the same.

shocking,
in retrospect the irony,
the humor of

shoes telling you
where to get a fix.

there's no toeing
no line.

you fall up,
haphazard into
a net that can't save you,
some wires

keep you undone,
in disconnect.

looking closer,
there is no weaving.
 
IndieGirl:
hot

he feels like black suede, mysteriously
softkiss bareshoulder
like he's been reading poetry all day -
all mine.

i am becoming a believer
in the show,
versus tell
theory.

interpretation; adoration.

a poet stumbles. who
gave you this magnet?

this feels
as if it were my very oh
delicate fraud

i hear your dragons.

and how you've been longing to
breathe me
since you first noticed i was

on fire.
Click to expand...


Shhhhhhhh! :blush:




OP might hear you. :ph34r:
 
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