Indie's Inanities
- Thread starter IndieGirl
- Start date
Can I say how glad I am that that's all over? Let's get a collective "Phew."
As for today, it's Monday, and the last place I want to be is the only place I'm obliged to be. The Sudan got back from Honeymooning. They're fondling each other all over the office. I want to gag.
Other than that...I don't have much to talk about. I feel funny today, but it's not because of them. Or anything else that I can think of... Just... stuff.
Fishy. "Like a whole boat loaded down with dead fish driving next to a cannery that is next to the seal grounds," according to one friend.
Something feels fishy. And iDunno(tm) what it is.
hooks and lures
The fisherman is in the passenger seat
with her, backing outof the driveway
in a huff.
the fight had nothing to do with
fishsticks.
they are flying through the air like not enough
the breading going everywhere.
he's too angry to care.
she threw a glass at his head. missed shattering
on the wall.
falling to the linoleum.
Trust the fisherman's raincoat
its corner is caught in the car door.
her face is rrred
with hatred, accelerating
it is all setoff by rubber yellow; the color nerve
of this guy.
i am watching from the tall front windows
the wicker chair sounds like dying crickets
beneath his shifting.
my little finger pads the window
he thinks, he feels
i choose her.
knows i love fishing.
my blame : not for him
but he'll take it all
carry it longer,
than my memory.
i won't say what they were. just
i don't want to be like them.
i like to run when i get mad. i don't
throw glass at peoples heads.
true hope, is my theory...
i pretend she didn't shoot herself, but ran off
to sea. with a grey bearded gentleman
bearing sticks of fish.
and i may never find him, other
either.
but i will not be looking hard
under lilac vegetals, or old spices, for small
constellations. prizes or cash.
rather here's
my moon. i'm too hurt and too tired
to sift through buffoons.
he will smell something of tides
and not blame me for the shifts in mine.
he is hot for me, cold for me
all the things i 'd wish to see
i sometimes doubt there's such a man
with a kid in his eyes
and the dead
in his pan.
As for today, it's Monday, and the last place I want to be is the only place I'm obliged to be. The Sudan got back from Honeymooning. They're fondling each other all over the office. I want to gag.
Other than that...I don't have much to talk about. I feel funny today, but it's not because of them. Or anything else that I can think of... Just... stuff.
Fishy. "Like a whole boat loaded down with dead fish driving next to a cannery that is next to the seal grounds," according to one friend.
Something feels fishy. And iDunno(tm) what it is.
hooks and lures
The fisherman is in the passenger seat
with her, backing outof the driveway
in a huff.
the fight had nothing to do with
fishsticks.
they are flying through the air like not enough
the breading going everywhere.
he's too angry to care.
she threw a glass at his head. missed shattering
on the wall.
falling to the linoleum.
Trust the fisherman's raincoat
its corner is caught in the car door.
her face is rrred
with hatred, accelerating
it is all setoff by rubber yellow; the color nerve
of this guy.
i am watching from the tall front windows
the wicker chair sounds like dying crickets
beneath his shifting.
my little finger pads the window
he thinks, he feels
i choose her.
knows i love fishing.
my blame : not for him
but he'll take it all
carry it longer,
than my memory.
i won't say what they were. just
i don't want to be like them.
i like to run when i get mad. i don't
throw glass at peoples heads.
true hope, is my theory...
i pretend she didn't shoot herself, but ran off
to sea. with a grey bearded gentleman
bearing sticks of fish.
and i may never find him, other
either.
but i will not be looking hard
under lilac vegetals, or old spices, for small
constellations. prizes or cash.
rather here's
my moon. i'm too hurt and too tired
to sift through buffoons.
he will smell something of tides
and not blame me for the shifts in mine.
he is hot for me, cold for me
all the things i 'd wish to see
i sometimes doubt there's such a man
with a kid in his eyes
and the dead
in his pan.
nice ash
she's cold and screams
with burnt eye sockets and a Brach's(tm) caramel
on the end of her tongue.
licked and smoothe, a
small black number eats
the edges of shoulders, the backs
of her calves.
ain't it a pretty bitch?
a life of lost-loves and
too much mouthing.
got to get away, run
to the edges of this too-close horizon.
off the edges, rather,
and she swims.
you feel her heels when they grind
gravel to sand and sand to clay,
stuck in her sashaying.
she feeds you something flippant
something not quite tasty.
and you like it, you want more
of the way it bites you.
she's a white-striped angel with
a grubby halo and bloody hands.
wielding headphones and a pen
like satan brandishes his pitchfork.
and your mouth is so busy hanging open
that you won't tingle at the way
you're left stung. she's a biter,
she's a fork-tongued fangful
and the crimsonlips licked leave you
dry and hard.
you want to leave her
sipped and sapped,
the jagged edges of her sheets
rendering meagre the contours of Europe.
IGEdit: Syntax
she's cold and screams
with burnt eye sockets and a Brach's(tm) caramel
on the end of her tongue.
licked and smoothe, a
small black number eats
the edges of shoulders, the backs
of her calves.
ain't it a pretty bitch?
a life of lost-loves and
too much mouthing.
got to get away, run
to the edges of this too-close horizon.
off the edges, rather,
and she swims.
you feel her heels when they grind
gravel to sand and sand to clay,
stuck in her sashaying.
she feeds you something flippant
something not quite tasty.
and you like it, you want more
of the way it bites you.
she's a white-striped angel with
a grubby halo and bloody hands.
wielding headphones and a pen
like satan brandishes his pitchfork.
and your mouth is so busy hanging open
that you won't tingle at the way
you're left stung. she's a biter,
she's a fork-tongued fangful
and the crimsonlips licked leave you
dry and hard.
you want to leave her
sipped and sapped,
the jagged edges of her sheets
rendering meagre the contours of Europe.
IGEdit: Syntax
Daimiaena
TNPer
OMFG...I've gotta admit since I came to TNP I've checked in here...cos your writings really good....
And I've lurked...stealing glimpses of someone elses intimate self...
And every moment that I have stolen and guiltily enjoyed in shameful silence count as nothing against how I feel after reading NICE ASH.....
Words of mine cannot do justice to the words and their order under your guidance....
Thank you....
What I'm trying to express is "I really like your stuff, particularily nice ash".....
And I've lurked...stealing glimpses of someone elses intimate self...
And every moment that I have stolen and guiltily enjoyed in shameful silence count as nothing against how I feel after reading NICE ASH.....
Words of mine cannot do justice to the words and their order under your guidance....
Thank you....
What I'm trying to express is "I really like your stuff, particularily nice ash".....
dont pick it up
TNPer
I really liked "hooks and lures"
Rhymey stuff I found cleaning out old notebooks last night:
trapped, blood-bound consistency -
life some vague conspiracy.
always the fates combine against
some trebled farce, religious angst.
seedy teenage melodrama:
recovery by blunt head-trauma.
wound inside these ramblings
the truth of how i feel for things:
no emo lack of understanding,
or hypocritical grand-standing -
something faded in the night,
gone before i caught its light.
eerie haunts the hole it made,
and i peel shade away from shade
to frank pursue some dark, some gloaming...
some seed of thought toward which i'm homing.
dank designs of dark deception:
pillage, plunder past perfection,
rape my reason ripe-reflected -
leave me hollow, blind, dejected.
sucked dry, i rattle in my shell.
it echoes empty: full of hell.
trapped, blood-bound consistency -
life some vague conspiracy.
always the fates combine against
some trebled farce, religious angst.
seedy teenage melodrama:
recovery by blunt head-trauma.
wound inside these ramblings
the truth of how i feel for things:
no emo lack of understanding,
or hypocritical grand-standing -
something faded in the night,
gone before i caught its light.
eerie haunts the hole it made,
and i peel shade away from shade
to frank pursue some dark, some gloaming...
some seed of thought toward which i'm homing.
dank designs of dark deception:
pillage, plunder past perfection,
rape my reason ripe-reflected -
leave me hollow, blind, dejected.
sucked dry, i rattle in my shell.
it echoes empty: full of hell.
That 14-page Epic I was Telling You About
Just touch the water
with your palm,
feel how it burns!
No word.
In eyes, the wild fires
of centuries glow.
Aren't we burning our own altars then?
We can't understand
who our enemies are.
Here, all things scream silently,
and bareheaded slowly I felt
myself turning grey.
She's a girl back from danger.
Crops her dark hair short
so that less of her
has to frown when someone gets hurt.
Yes, a brown eye is obviously more
fluent in dark furniture,
it's more keen, more cordial than a blue one.
To the blue one, though,
nothing matters!
The blue one can always tell
the owner from the goods,
especially before closing.
I never could explain cloud-pallor.
I've learned about my own, and any
fate, from a letter, from it's black color.
To a creaking pen, even some words
won't come; and the eyes
of a darling darken.
One summer evening, I,
the most mortal item in the midst of this
sense the tremble
of a whole world's ribcage.
Is that precisely why we are happy -
because we are speckled nothings?
And when we are unhappy, perhaps
it's for the same small reasons.
Private life.
Fears, shredded thoughts.
The jagged edges of a blanket
render meagre the contours of Europe.
Lean in. I'll whisper something
to you: I am grateful for everything -
the chirr of scissors already cutting out
the void for me.
The more invisible something is,
the more certain it's been around.
The more obvious it's everywhere.
Someone's shadow flew past
in sweet desperation -
shrieking with laughter
to warm herself up on a spark.
The angels play hide and seek?
But he's there in the earth underfoot.
And when she looked at him
she missed herself:
that once was a point of anguish.
Tell me, darling - was it me
who lived on earth?
She and me whispering together?
You come with us, up
to the very brink of darkness.
And nobody wants to listen
to everyone's little bird caroling on a bough,
but it trills out all the louder.
Read. Read my fortune in the coffee grounds,
because I'm similar to that snuffed-out brew.
Because I feel the strength.
Just try to step on me.
I'll scorch your heels.
I'll be the salt of your tears
and drink myself sick.
And what am I?
Vessel of pre-eternal abysses.
Ebb, flow
within me and I block my ears
to hear
the sound inside this shell.
Seas and all their hearts
run dry.
What are the remnants
left on fast-drying sands?
What should I list of them
for you on my fingers?
Molluscs and verses,
slugs and a curl...
her voice crescendos, climaxing in
a bird's shriek,
in a singing.
Oh, squall like a seagull
and you will obtain acquiescence.
I'm so subdued at it is,
it's simply...
disgusting.
Wind carries off everything
westward along the shadow's track.
How can you stand your ground
among these tremors
and crevasses?
Best let's just flutter off
into the sky towards
the sunset where Persephone, pale
and in despair, stares
at a telephone dial.
So I kept my peace,
waiting, staying
like stones and flowers.
In love I lost myself.
I broke away and watched until I swayed
like a wave between the life I dreamed
and the changing dream I live.
Each time I rise,
the mountains in my blood
say no, and darkness
holds me in its narrow sorrows.
An autumn of salt-spray
settles on our wounds.
No tree can bud.
No Spring...
Our words inherit nothing,
beget nothing.
We are islands.
No lashes fringe the sun.
And so live all men.
Oh, my dry and silent land,
did I leave you like a fossil?
On maps you're virile, rich
and countercoloured.
Shall fresh winds rearrange the sand?
Let the rain come.
Let the rain come and wash us in our ruins.
Let the poems strangled on our lips
be swept away like rocks in the street.
I have tasted them all
and none could slake me.
Yet I learned their love
and my despair deserves such waters.
When the sea rages my blood
with a lost poem
sleeping in my eyes,
I go.
Silence rises on the sand.
There are hearts to touch:
some ink...
some paper...
He holds a friend and is lost.
Songs speak to him,
and holidays make him lonely.
The smell of coffee is geography.
He has a pass
to leave the ocean and another
pass to enter it.
He is a drop of blood
looking for its wound.
The smell of coffee is geography.
He drinks his coffee and his dreams.
I ate. I drank. I slept. I dreamt.
I write: "He tears the clouds apart
and throws them at the wind."
and it disappears before me.
He reads the details of his fate
on the wall behind her legs.
Your war is two wars.
Darling, did you kill?
Darling is slient.
He drinks hi s coffee and his dreams.
He draws a map without a border on it.
He measures earth with chains.
When my hands were rock
I was river.
When my words were anger
I was storm.
When my words turned honey
flies covered my lips.
Time passes - like somebody who, on a telephone,
is laughing or weeping far away from me:
whatever I'm hearing I can't see.
When he finds he forgets.
When he forgets he loves.
When he loves he begins forgetting.
And his body is knowing,
his body is very professional;
Only his soul reamings an amateur
always. It tries and fumbles.
Darling doesn't learn and gets confused,
drunk and blind with his pleasures and
pains.
In Autumn, will he die like a fig?
Shrivelled, sweet and full of himself?
And now I do what
every memor dog does:
I howl quietly
and piss a turf of remembrance around me,
no one may enter it.
How do you remind fallen fruit
of its leaves and branches?
The sharp thorns
how soft and green they were in Springtime?
How do you not forget
even a fist
was once an open palm and fingers?
How did Samson bring down the temple
standing eyeless, saying: "Let me die with the Philistines!"
Did he embrace the pillars as in a last love?
Or did he push them away with his arms,
to be alone in his death?
Mistakes are marvelous and simple
as life, as death, as
the arithmetic books
of small children.
Say something more: talk.
Can I pass from my body and onward?
Maybe now
I'm looking in that rain
for the scarlet thread.
Where to begin?
I don't even know how to ask.
Too many tongues
are mixed in my mouth.
I immerse myself. In the laws
of life's grammar: I am learning
the declensions and ascentions
of silence.
After they all leave,
I remain alone with the poems,
some poems of mine, some of others.
I prefer poems that others have written.
I remain quiet, and slowly
the knot in my throat dissolves.
I remain.
Sometimes I wish everyone would go away,
maybe it's nice, after all, to write poems.
You sit in your room and the walls grow taller,
colors deepen.
You wish everyone would go away.
You don't know what's the matter with you.
Perhaps you'll think of something.
Then it all passes, and you
are pure crystal.
After that,
love.
Narcissus was so much in love with himself
only a fool doesn't realize
he loved the river, too.
You sit alone.
Your heart aches, but
won't break.
The faded images wash away
one by one.
The the defects.
A sun sets at midnight.
You wish you were
dead or alive or somebody else.
Isn't there a darling you love? a word?
Surely you remember.
Only a fool lets the sun
set when it likes. It drifts
off too early westward, toward islands.
I have no paddle, my darling,
to push my boat into the river.
Some rivers you cannot swim.
Some strong rivers there are you cannot ford.
And the secret thing in their heavings
threatens with iron mask
the last lighted torch of
my shadowed understanding.
Just touch the water
with your palm,
feel how it burns!
No word.
In eyes, the wild fires
of centuries glow.
Aren't we burning our own altars then?
We can't understand
who our enemies are.
Here, all things scream silently,
and bareheaded slowly I felt
myself turning grey.
She's a girl back from danger.
Crops her dark hair short
so that less of her
has to frown when someone gets hurt.
Yes, a brown eye is obviously more
fluent in dark furniture,
it's more keen, more cordial than a blue one.
To the blue one, though,
nothing matters!
The blue one can always tell
the owner from the goods,
especially before closing.
I never could explain cloud-pallor.
I've learned about my own, and any
fate, from a letter, from it's black color.
To a creaking pen, even some words
won't come; and the eyes
of a darling darken.
One summer evening, I,
the most mortal item in the midst of this
sense the tremble
of a whole world's ribcage.
Is that precisely why we are happy -
because we are speckled nothings?
And when we are unhappy, perhaps
it's for the same small reasons.
Private life.
Fears, shredded thoughts.
The jagged edges of a blanket
render meagre the contours of Europe.
Lean in. I'll whisper something
to you: I am grateful for everything -
the chirr of scissors already cutting out
the void for me.
The more invisible something is,
the more certain it's been around.
The more obvious it's everywhere.
Someone's shadow flew past
in sweet desperation -
shrieking with laughter
to warm herself up on a spark.
The angels play hide and seek?
But he's there in the earth underfoot.
And when she looked at him
she missed herself:
that once was a point of anguish.
Tell me, darling - was it me
who lived on earth?
She and me whispering together?
You come with us, up
to the very brink of darkness.
And nobody wants to listen
to everyone's little bird caroling on a bough,
but it trills out all the louder.
Read. Read my fortune in the coffee grounds,
because I'm similar to that snuffed-out brew.
Because I feel the strength.
Just try to step on me.
I'll scorch your heels.
I'll be the salt of your tears
and drink myself sick.
And what am I?
Vessel of pre-eternal abysses.
Ebb, flow
within me and I block my ears
to hear
the sound inside this shell.
Seas and all their hearts
run dry.
What are the remnants
left on fast-drying sands?
What should I list of them
for you on my fingers?
Molluscs and verses,
slugs and a curl...
her voice crescendos, climaxing in
a bird's shriek,
in a singing.
Oh, squall like a seagull
and you will obtain acquiescence.
I'm so subdued at it is,
it's simply...
disgusting.
Wind carries off everything
westward along the shadow's track.
How can you stand your ground
among these tremors
and crevasses?
Best let's just flutter off
into the sky towards
the sunset where Persephone, pale
and in despair, stares
at a telephone dial.
So I kept my peace,
waiting, staying
like stones and flowers.
In love I lost myself.
I broke away and watched until I swayed
like a wave between the life I dreamed
and the changing dream I live.
Each time I rise,
the mountains in my blood
say no, and darkness
holds me in its narrow sorrows.
An autumn of salt-spray
settles on our wounds.
No tree can bud.
No Spring...
Our words inherit nothing,
beget nothing.
We are islands.
No lashes fringe the sun.
And so live all men.
Oh, my dry and silent land,
did I leave you like a fossil?
On maps you're virile, rich
and countercoloured.
Shall fresh winds rearrange the sand?
Let the rain come.
Let the rain come and wash us in our ruins.
Let the poems strangled on our lips
be swept away like rocks in the street.
I have tasted them all
and none could slake me.
Yet I learned their love
and my despair deserves such waters.
When the sea rages my blood
with a lost poem
sleeping in my eyes,
I go.
Silence rises on the sand.
There are hearts to touch:
some ink...
some paper...
He holds a friend and is lost.
Songs speak to him,
and holidays make him lonely.
The smell of coffee is geography.
He has a pass
to leave the ocean and another
pass to enter it.
He is a drop of blood
looking for its wound.
The smell of coffee is geography.
He drinks his coffee and his dreams.
I ate. I drank. I slept. I dreamt.
I write: "He tears the clouds apart
and throws them at the wind."
and it disappears before me.
He reads the details of his fate
on the wall behind her legs.
Your war is two wars.
Darling, did you kill?
Darling is slient.
He drinks hi s coffee and his dreams.
He draws a map without a border on it.
He measures earth with chains.
When my hands were rock
I was river.
When my words were anger
I was storm.
When my words turned honey
flies covered my lips.
Time passes - like somebody who, on a telephone,
is laughing or weeping far away from me:
whatever I'm hearing I can't see.
When he finds he forgets.
When he forgets he loves.
When he loves he begins forgetting.
And his body is knowing,
his body is very professional;
Only his soul reamings an amateur
always. It tries and fumbles.
Darling doesn't learn and gets confused,
drunk and blind with his pleasures and
pains.
In Autumn, will he die like a fig?
Shrivelled, sweet and full of himself?
And now I do what
every memor dog does:
I howl quietly
and piss a turf of remembrance around me,
no one may enter it.
How do you remind fallen fruit
of its leaves and branches?
The sharp thorns
how soft and green they were in Springtime?
How do you not forget
even a fist
was once an open palm and fingers?
How did Samson bring down the temple
standing eyeless, saying: "Let me die with the Philistines!"
Did he embrace the pillars as in a last love?
Or did he push them away with his arms,
to be alone in his death?
Mistakes are marvelous and simple
as life, as death, as
the arithmetic books
of small children.
Say something more: talk.
Can I pass from my body and onward?
Maybe now
I'm looking in that rain
for the scarlet thread.
Where to begin?
I don't even know how to ask.
Too many tongues
are mixed in my mouth.
I immerse myself. In the laws
of life's grammar: I am learning
the declensions and ascentions
of silence.
After they all leave,
I remain alone with the poems,
some poems of mine, some of others.
I prefer poems that others have written.
I remain quiet, and slowly
the knot in my throat dissolves.
I remain.
Sometimes I wish everyone would go away,
maybe it's nice, after all, to write poems.
You sit in your room and the walls grow taller,
colors deepen.
You wish everyone would go away.
You don't know what's the matter with you.
Perhaps you'll think of something.
Then it all passes, and you
are pure crystal.
After that,
love.
Narcissus was so much in love with himself
only a fool doesn't realize
he loved the river, too.
You sit alone.
Your heart aches, but
won't break.
The faded images wash away
one by one.
The the defects.
A sun sets at midnight.
You wish you were
dead or alive or somebody else.
Isn't there a darling you love? a word?
Surely you remember.
Only a fool lets the sun
set when it likes. It drifts
off too early westward, toward islands.
I have no paddle, my darling,
to push my boat into the river.
Some rivers you cannot swim.
Some strong rivers there are you cannot ford.
And the secret thing in their heavings
threatens with iron mask
the last lighted torch of
my shadowed understanding.
desperation cuts the dangled string
you've swung for too long, and now
lights out, life's shout
all around you - the infinite
niceties, tiny things, keeping you
tethered to a place that bleeds. you
have fallen silently, so silently
onto new-deaf ears. the
migranity, insanity, depravity in
all this inner pain
shot-riddled any last semblance of caring;
burned the eyeholes of my concern into
ash, empty charcoal sockets.
no one hears the screams in my eyes.
kill the silence, they are saying
silently. i do.
careless and evergreen
he fingers her bending,
stretches this bow;
awes the tautness
upon which he'll be strung.
repeated and endless
are the marks of his choosing.
he will break her
as she bends over
backwards for him,
all the while it looks
as though he cries
on her shoulder.
how will some green pliancy
remain if she's sapped,
how will he love
what he has
and has broken?
together, building
some easy-broken thing.
no matter - as long
as it's together.
at least they can't be
alone anymore - she says.
he is still cowering
some dark corner -
the storm sill raging
outside the trees
scream at his hiding,
snap in the wind,
branch the sudden distance
between him
and her closet-self.
you've swung for too long, and now
lights out, life's shout
all around you - the infinite
niceties, tiny things, keeping you
tethered to a place that bleeds. you
have fallen silently, so silently
onto new-deaf ears. the
migranity, insanity, depravity in
all this inner pain
shot-riddled any last semblance of caring;
burned the eyeholes of my concern into
ash, empty charcoal sockets.
no one hears the screams in my eyes.
kill the silence, they are saying
silently. i do.
careless and evergreen
he fingers her bending,
stretches this bow;
awes the tautness
upon which he'll be strung.
repeated and endless
are the marks of his choosing.
he will break her
as she bends over
backwards for him,
all the while it looks
as though he cries
on her shoulder.
how will some green pliancy
remain if she's sapped,
how will he love
what he has
and has broken?
together, building
some easy-broken thing.
no matter - as long
as it's together.
at least they can't be
alone anymore - she says.
he is still cowering
some dark corner -
the storm sill raging
outside the trees
scream at his hiding,
snap in the wind,
branch the sudden distance
between him
and her closet-self.
Noooooothiiiing...
One for Andrea...
Shoefly
watch her build hopings on new shoes
and pig-wings
with buckles and heels she adds
more to her peels.
some plastic some leather to hold her
together.
it's a bow or a strap she needs, to
spring the trap of the days she
sashays through a hazy old maze.
a platform, a slipper and then
he will sip her.
from hiptip to the floor,
stiletto me more
point-toed,
divalicious, morethanpumps ambitious.
it's how she lets steve
madden beneath her sleeves, as if manolo
blahniks can counter the
tock-ticks - compensating
real hugs with new fly boots and uggs.
from her toes to her shins she'll flaunt
shoefashion whims.
and in no man-made upper, she sits
lonely
at supper.
IQ
it's talk of numbers again...
all athmatic and how smart you are.
believing, in the eyes, so good
at lying now that you know yourself.
it's obvious but only, momentarily.
the absensce of thought
is letting
whatwhomhaveyou take you
where, what ever.
You will find yourself, perpetually
making things
more difficult. and you'll smile a little
smile awhile, but
you won't feel as though you'll deserve it.
ten thousandangels you will never know are crying
for you now.
while
somewhere on the earth the clock is ticking indifferently,
samely someone will sigh.
there are persons pushing it
against
people weighing on it to slow down.
Mostly we just watch
what it is - this time.
what's next.
and it isn't to ask, anymore.
Time needs space.
I cue you to move onto
the next in a series of questions.
this is all just to see how smart you are.
You're driving in a car at the same speed as Ann.
who will reach point B first -
who gets -
the man ?
i was never one for quizzes.
and she wants to talk digits. she wants to talk mensa.
what she knows is the whole of a lot of everything.
she asks me what mine is and i say
What i know, is that,
i don't
know.
One for Andrea...
Shoefly
watch her build hopings on new shoes
and pig-wings
with buckles and heels she adds
more to her peels.
some plastic some leather to hold her
together.
it's a bow or a strap she needs, to
spring the trap of the days she
sashays through a hazy old maze.
a platform, a slipper and then
he will sip her.
from hiptip to the floor,
stiletto me more
point-toed,
divalicious, morethanpumps ambitious.
it's how she lets steve
madden beneath her sleeves, as if manolo
blahniks can counter the
tock-ticks - compensating
real hugs with new fly boots and uggs.
from her toes to her shins she'll flaunt
shoefashion whims.
and in no man-made upper, she sits
lonely
at supper.
IQ
it's talk of numbers again...
all athmatic and how smart you are.
believing, in the eyes, so good
at lying now that you know yourself.
it's obvious but only, momentarily.
the absensce of thought
is letting
whatwhomhaveyou take you
where, what ever.
You will find yourself, perpetually
making things
more difficult. and you'll smile a little
smile awhile, but
you won't feel as though you'll deserve it.
ten thousandangels you will never know are crying
for you now.
while
somewhere on the earth the clock is ticking indifferently,
samely someone will sigh.
there are persons pushing it
against
people weighing on it to slow down.
Mostly we just watch
what it is - this time.
what's next.
and it isn't to ask, anymore.
Time needs space.
I cue you to move onto
the next in a series of questions.
this is all just to see how smart you are.
You're driving in a car at the same speed as Ann.
who will reach point B first -
who gets -
the man ?
i was never one for quizzes.
and she wants to talk digits. she wants to talk mensa.
what she knows is the whole of a lot of everything.
she asks me what mine is and i say
What i know, is that,
i don't
know.
Gah. Work is killing me out of my mind. Dunno how that works, exactly, but that's the sentence that's sticking. And by "killing" I mean "boring." Just, you know, FYI.
So, I've been writing all morning. Writing writing writing...like I do....
I meant to write a story about Melanie the FreakishBosomsGirl and Special Hugs in the Elevator...but that will have to wait until I can do it justice.
Meanwhile, it's standard fare for me, composition-wise:
lonely wanted to write
a letter.
so write me, he says,
or nearly says.
she shakes her head
she just wants to sign
something sincerely. her
bedsheet 3am habits only
between her and what's scribbled.
meanwhile he signs them naked,
he signs them with his hands.
he signs them from greatness,
from latin america, from heroes and
the congo and something about coffee.
he writes she is awesome he writes
she is better
than boxers, than georgia peaches.
he had one once. he likes them.
she writes red she's on
fire she carves
words out of veins
catch her this dragon.
come put out
these flames.
lesstaken's inviting allure
a firecrew can't
unquench anything
left beneath smoulder.
i'd touch that scruff. i'd kiss
that shoulder.
on corners, from his mouth,
hang her edges of reason.
and something pink says shineon
beauti-
ful treason.
fasten your sheetbelts
for the crash of your pride.
when she waves
back at him
after each homerun
slide.
I was mostly just rhyming stuff and...stuff...I dunno. It's interesting to write stuff while pretending to be something else.
So, I've been writing all morning. Writing writing writing...like I do....
I meant to write a story about Melanie the FreakishBosomsGirl and Special Hugs in the Elevator...but that will have to wait until I can do it justice.
Meanwhile, it's standard fare for me, composition-wise:
lonely wanted to write
a letter.
so write me, he says,
or nearly says.
she shakes her head
she just wants to sign
something sincerely. her
bedsheet 3am habits only
between her and what's scribbled.
meanwhile he signs them naked,
he signs them with his hands.
he signs them from greatness,
from latin america, from heroes and
the congo and something about coffee.
he writes she is awesome he writes
she is better
than boxers, than georgia peaches.
he had one once. he likes them.
she writes red she's on
fire she carves
words out of veins
catch her this dragon.
come put out
these flames.
lesstaken's inviting allure
a firecrew can't
unquench anything
left beneath smoulder.
i'd touch that scruff. i'd kiss
that shoulder.
on corners, from his mouth,
hang her edges of reason.
and something pink says shineon
beauti-
ful treason.
fasten your sheetbelts
for the crash of your pride.
when she waves
back at him
after each homerun
slide.
I was mostly just rhyming stuff and...stuff...I dunno. It's interesting to write stuff while pretending to be something else.
morning would
she comes after midnight
calls herself
tomorrow.
steals your heart -
but it's more like
borrow.
cat sleeps languidly
on bookshelf.
when humans go away:
cat reads
Hemingway. simply,
steals her breath away...
Mexico will not acknowledge
the lemon.
crickets will pine all night
about the mocking sound
in their title.
nearby people sleep late.
i want them to teach me
this.
someone beckons her back to bed
in a book.
oh Coltrane. oh crickets.
Midnight comes.
she calls herself so suddenly
she comes
and your clock changes too
A. M.
she comes after midnight
calls herself
tomorrow.
steals your heart -
but it's more like
borrow.
cat sleeps languidly
on bookshelf.
when humans go away:
cat reads
Hemingway. simply,
steals her breath away...
Mexico will not acknowledge
the lemon.
crickets will pine all night
about the mocking sound
in their title.
nearby people sleep late.
i want them to teach me
this.
someone beckons her back to bed
in a book.
oh Coltrane. oh crickets.
Midnight comes.
she calls herself so suddenly
she comes
and your clock changes too
A. M.
A Worthy Cause
Listen up readers, friends, family, strangers, etc. On Sept. 16 of this year, my dear fellow poet and friend, Erin Monahan will join others on a three mile course through Charlotte, North Carolina to raise money for cardiac research. Erin hopes to raise $3,000.00.
Read more about it here.
Let's join her fight against Congenital Heart Defects. We can support her efforts by visiting the “Team Nova” web page (named after her baby son, Donovan, who passed away from CHD in April this past year) and making a donation either online or by printing a donation form from the website and sending a donation via snail mail to the address listed on the form.
Normally, I wouldn't ask for your money. I'm still not. Erin is. For something worthwhile. For the kids who can't ask you themselves.
Listen up readers, friends, family, strangers, etc. On Sept. 16 of this year, my dear fellow poet and friend, Erin Monahan will join others on a three mile course through Charlotte, North Carolina to raise money for cardiac research. Erin hopes to raise $3,000.00.
Read more about it here.
Let's join her fight against Congenital Heart Defects. We can support her efforts by visiting the “Team Nova” web page (named after her baby son, Donovan, who passed away from CHD in April this past year) and making a donation either online or by printing a donation form from the website and sending a donation via snail mail to the address listed on the form.
Normally, I wouldn't ask for your money. I'm still not. Erin is. For something worthwhile. For the kids who can't ask you themselves.
Oh sure, you'll all read when I post crap about me and my sad, sad life, but the minute I ask for money, there's a stunned and awkward silence all around the room.
'At's bollocks, mates. Total bollocks.
Eh up, cock? It's Monday. And the mother of all Mondays to top it off.
I have divulged my last, great, hyperpersonal secret to the one person (perhaps two) who will abuse their new profound(ly dangerous) knowledge to the fullest extent possible.
Perhaps I am as stupid as I occasionally convey myself to be.
At any rate, I don't see any functional walking in my future. Someday, perhaps, I will share this story with you.
Today, though, I will share the story of:
Melanie the Freakish Bosoms Girl(tm) and Special Hugs in the Elevator
I was at the office a few weeks ago, heading down to a meeting on the ground floor of our building. I get into the elevator with Matt and Nikki, coworkers of mine. There's this other girl in the elevator. Melanie. Melanie is...she's one of those special people who...is special, and...has a sweet spirit. She also has like, size QQQ bosoms. And she is not a small person. She's married to another coworker of ours, Damon. Who is a VERY NOT small person.
And she felt like sharing important things with me, right? Right.
So I'm standing in the elevator and feeling kind of awkward. The doors close and suddenly she looks and me and goes, "I'm soo happy!" I pretended I didn't hear her, because I don't do well in social situations, let alone awkward elevator social situations. I'm also hoping to God that neither Matt nor Nikki decide they are curious, and fall for the bait.
Melanie pokes me and says again, "I'm soooo happy!" Ismile grimace politely and nod my head. "Oh really, Mel? That's good. Why are you so happy?" I say in a nice, polite way.
You'll never guess what she said. It was the craziest thing ever, and I totally almost exploded trying to hold in my laugther until I could get a decent distance away to not seem terribly rude. She giggles - her voluptuous endowments heaving in a Richter 7 fashion - and says to me:
...
...
"I was talking to my husband this morning, and he said that when we get home from work we get to special hug.
...
...
...
Maybe even twice."
THE END
In other news, I wrote a poem, but it's prosey and WAY too understandable, so I'm not sharing it, because it's not time. And no, it's not posted on my blogspot blog, so don't go scrounging for it elsewhere.
I'll post it eventually.
Maybe even twice.
I'm soooo making a t-shirt that says, "I need a Special Hug."
'At's bollocks, mates. Total bollocks.
Eh up, cock? It's Monday. And the mother of all Mondays to top it off.
I have divulged my last, great, hyperpersonal secret to the one person (perhaps two) who will abuse their new profound(ly dangerous) knowledge to the fullest extent possible.
Perhaps I am as stupid as I occasionally convey myself to be.
At any rate, I don't see any functional walking in my future. Someday, perhaps, I will share this story with you.
Today, though, I will share the story of:
Melanie the Freakish Bosoms Girl(tm) and Special Hugs in the Elevator
I was at the office a few weeks ago, heading down to a meeting on the ground floor of our building. I get into the elevator with Matt and Nikki, coworkers of mine. There's this other girl in the elevator. Melanie. Melanie is...she's one of those special people who...is special, and...has a sweet spirit. She also has like, size QQQ bosoms. And she is not a small person. She's married to another coworker of ours, Damon. Who is a VERY NOT small person.
And she felt like sharing important things with me, right? Right.
So I'm standing in the elevator and feeling kind of awkward. The doors close and suddenly she looks and me and goes, "I'm soo happy!" I pretended I didn't hear her, because I don't do well in social situations, let alone awkward elevator social situations. I'm also hoping to God that neither Matt nor Nikki decide they are curious, and fall for the bait.
Melanie pokes me and says again, "I'm soooo happy!" I
You'll never guess what she said. It was the craziest thing ever, and I totally almost exploded trying to hold in my laugther until I could get a decent distance away to not seem terribly rude. She giggles - her voluptuous endowments heaving in a Richter 7 fashion - and says to me:
...
...
"I was talking to my husband this morning, and he said that when we get home from work we get to special hug.
...
...
...
Maybe even twice."
THE END
In other news, I wrote a poem, but it's prosey and WAY too understandable, so I'm not sharing it, because it's not time. And no, it's not posted on my blogspot blog, so don't go scrounging for it elsewhere.
I'll post it eventually.
Maybe even twice.
I'm soooo making a t-shirt that says, "I need a Special Hug."
moveon
only some dumb idiot
the song keeps
saying -
one of my ifthings
a thing you should
know.
i held myself
this time, shielded myself
from thunderloft inklings.
it was a wanting
i lost and dug for
in you.
ignoring everything
easyflung aside.
i am not as stupid as
i am.
putup so tolerant
with your shenanigans.
nowisee:
the line between
tolerance and ignorance -
some dumb stupidity.
you ate my heart
all frozinside.
oh, i have given you
the billionaire benefit
of my pennypiece doubts.
i wordguessed
before they'll ever fallfrom
your lips.
i carefulcollect them
from the floor;
cautious of their weight to all things,
and measured them against
quietugs and heartwords.
how manynights
have we lived? between
the days you belong to
anyonebutme.
what do i know?
have i held you down
to somedifferent understanding?
no lastender lie.
i've swept too many of those
unexamined
into my forgiveness
and brushedoff hands.
perhaps you've calloused me
strongenough in myself
to leave you.
this is not runaway,
this is
moveon.
there is a difference.
only some dumb idiot
the song keeps
saying -
one of my ifthings
a thing you should
know.
i held myself
this time, shielded myself
from thunderloft inklings.
it was a wanting
i lost and dug for
in you.
ignoring everything
easyflung aside.
i am not as stupid as
i am.
putup so tolerant
with your shenanigans.
nowisee:
the line between
tolerance and ignorance -
some dumb stupidity.
you ate my heart
all frozinside.
oh, i have given you
the billionaire benefit
of my pennypiece doubts.
i wordguessed
before they'll ever fallfrom
your lips.
i carefulcollect them
from the floor;
cautious of their weight to all things,
and measured them against
quietugs and heartwords.
how manynights
have we lived? between
the days you belong to
anyonebutme.
what do i know?
have i held you down
to somedifferent understanding?
no lastender lie.
i've swept too many of those
unexamined
into my forgiveness
and brushedoff hands.
perhaps you've calloused me
strongenough in myself
to leave you.
this is not runaway,
this is
moveon.
there is a difference.
Golden Sun and Sea
TNPer
Unless I am missing something (which I very well maybe and in that case I am sorry) that was not written by you but it is combined lyrics from the band My Favorite (which happen to be my all time favorite band).
In any case it is awesome that you even know who they are.
What ^ said.
Child in Red
Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself,
and yet, despite herself, she seems to move
according to the rhythm of her life to come.
She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
half-turns around...
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.
Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.
It's not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.
It's this dress that she'll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
Rilke is my new poetic idol. I love his work. I'm naming a son of mine Rainer.
Child in Red
Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself,
and yet, despite herself, she seems to move
according to the rhythm of her life to come.
She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
half-turns around...
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.
Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.
It's not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.
It's this dress that she'll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
Rilke is my new poetic idol. I love his work. I'm naming a son of mine Rainer.
Did you hear the one about...
End of Autumn
Rainer Maria Rilke
I have seen for some time
how everything is changing.
Something rises and acts
and kills and causes grief.
From one time to the next
all the gardens now are not the same;
from the yellowing to the
golden slow decay;
how long that path has been.
Now I stand amid emptiness
and gaze down all avenues.
Almost to the distant oceans
I can see the solemn ponderous
relentlessly denying sky.
I feel a kinship with the lemon peach tree in the backyard; its fruit harvested early, the leaves dirty gold and sloughing off too fast to catch and savour. Too soon for it to collect itself and don some other girding. This past week the wind changed direction and the tree and I have been rendered bare and reaching toward the sky. At our feet lay the million tiny reminders of what we were, and how things had been. Paralyzed in straining upward, someone else must rake up our pieces, or the ground collect and eat them - our past and little lives.
My roots plunge hungrily through the dark underneathing, a search for some meaning in the decay of former selves to feed and progress, to eat in the months of cold and hestitant sunlight. I shiver, exposed, at the touch of the breeze, and ask myself why I could not have kept my green and guarded growth. I ask myself what I could have done to stay whole. I ask the nothingness about change and why it has stripped me naked and set me before the elements. It was not me. Nothing I did has put me where I am now. Each leaf had let go, and the harsh wind swept me of what needed me no longer. Or rather, I am only rid of something I never actually had. The leaves exist in themselves, it seems. Still, I shiver. Still, I reach. Bitter, the growth of a new skin comes only after the long, cold thrash of darkness, of being numb. Soon, my sap will freeze in my veins; my brittle outward self suddenly second to what I am in the earth below that bears, supports, and warms me.
I don't know your face no more. Or feel the touch that I adored. I don't know your face no more. It's just the place I'm looking for. We might as well be strangers in another town, we might as well be living in another world. We might as well...We might as well...We might as well... I don't know your thoughts these days, we're strangers in an empty space. I don't understand your heart; it's easier to be apart. We might as well be strangers in another town. We might as well be living in another time. We might as well... we might as well... we might as well be strangers, for all I know of you now. For all I know.
It's so easy, you see, to imagine yourself sitting in the pieces of things and wondering what you could have done to keep it from breaking. The hard part is realizing that there was no thing to begin with. The breaking of something, I can take. It's when what you were holding so carefully in your hands is suddenly gone. When you look at the spaces it was and realize that it never was. You held it, you touched, smelt, and loved it, and then someone comes and tells you that it never existed. That you couldn't have held it and loved it, because it was never...there. Or anywhere. It's easier to have something broken. It's easier to have something lost. It's the empty that kills you. It's the empty that drains the blood from out the holes that you believed were full.
I used to think that truth was something stark, something stoic...steadfast, immovable. That truth was like a pillar, or a foundation. Then you hit it, and find that truth is more like a bullet train, or a mack truck. At least, that's what it feels like. But it is a pillar, it is a foundation. It is some vast, stark immovable thing. You realize it was there the whole time, and that it didn't hit you...you hit it. And not only do you hurt immensely, you feel a prize idiot for not seeing it there the whole time.
Well it's a lonely road that you have chosen; morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore. And it's a long time since your heart was frozen...morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore. For a moment your eyes open and you know all the things I ever wanted you to know. I don't know you, and I don't want to - till the moment your eyes open, and you know that it's a lonely place that you have run to. Morning comes, and you don't want to know me anymore. And it's a lonely end that you will come to...morning comes. And you don't want to know me anymore. For a moment, your eyes open, and you know all the things I ever wanted you to know. I don't know you, and I don't want to. Till the moment your eyes open, and you know.
The problem is, I was so damn close to hitting the nail...but I was still that crucial bit off, and when the hammer bounced, and pegged my thumb, I was completely surprized. And I cursed my thumb, I cursed the hammer. I didn't curse the fact that the nail was in the wrong place, the wrong wall, the wrong house... you set yourself up for these things, you know. When you're just so cocksure that you're right. That you've interpreted the wrench in your gut perfectly. I got the picture right. I was just looking from the wrong angle. It's never happened, before. Not like this...I mean, sure I've been cheated on. That is a grief that I know, and am acquainted with. That is a failure that I can accept. I expected the disappointment of a broken thing. I never could have guessed the agony of everything - everything - rendered non-existent, and myself rendered cheap and dirty.
It's one thing to be cheated on, it's another thing entirely to find that you have been the tool of his infidelities. It's just what you feel like, too. A tool. And then, oh agony, you blame your goddamn self for it. You cram the hurt into your mouth and suck on it hard, hoping it will stop...that you can erase the hurting too. I have been a lot of things...I've been a fabrication, a bitch, an invalid, a helpmeet, a better half, an evil half, a whole bunch of halves, a student, a drop-out, a lover, a hater, a rebel with and without a cause, a geek, a dork, an intellectual, a poet, a sister, a daughter, a friend, an enemy.
I'd never been an unwitting mistress. It's a new taste.
Do you know what it tastes like? It's foul. The putrid aftertaste of food-poisoning vomit when you've eaten at a second-rate Chinese hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and then - to go a step further - the only thing you have to clean that taste out of your mouth is feces. You feel like drinking bleach, or Pine-Sol(tm), or having someone scrub your soul out with Comet(tm) and a toothbrush. And you didn't even make the mess.
The worst of it comes when your empathy makes no exceptions for the situation. When he calls you crying, wanting pity and a warm embrace and every fiber of your heart is screaming to give it back, to stop his hurting. Because you yourself are so accustomed to hurting; you know it. And that it's no big deal if you hurt, you just don't want anyone else to. And then you ache not only for yourself, but for him. While you're force-fed shovelfuls of reality, empathy washes it down with pint after pint of a blind pity for the captor, the villain, the beast, the lie. And then you fight not only the pain, you have to fight yourself. You have to fight the nurturing aspect of yourself that only wants to fix and help and love. The parts of yourself that still love him, because they feel sorry for him, because they know him well enough to understand the why of things.
You realize that in the moment you feel the weakest, the worst, the most wretched, you have to be strong. You have to finally - finally - take a stand for yourself. And swear you won't let it hurt you more. That you won't cave. That you'll do something for yourself, because you respect yourself the way he didn't. That you honor yourself, the way he didn't. That you have faith in yourself...the way he didn't. That you love yourself. The way he didn't.
Then you are left alone, in quiet and aching, and your imagination wanders to what-ifs. And you fight it away from them for as long as possible, but they come in barrages, and your walls have already been broken. What if I had still been sick...still am sick? What if this had been the last year I had or have, and six months of it were stolen from me? What if I had known about it all along, and the truth wasn't a surprise...would I still have traded the fucking love of my life for the fucker of my life? I wondered about Dan. I wondered about what could have been, with the kinks ironed out, if I hadn't been so distracted by what seemed so genuine at the time. We talked this weekend, and cried a lot, he's having such a hard time now that Su's gone psychotic and hallucinatory on him again, and he talked about how he went for her because everything I'd done told him he'd never get me back. And I let myself be angry and sad - in the middle of the night, when I could be angry and sad no one would know....
So many what-ifs. So many hard, sticky places you can't let yourself sink into. You have to keep moving. You have to pick out the things that you learned and can be grateful for.
Do you know that line that Muzzy says to Millie, in "Thoroughly Modern Millie" starring Julie Andrews? It's a ridiculous movie, really, but over and over I've been thinking about the line...where she's talking about her deceased billionaire husband, and how she found out he was a billionaire. He'd given her this giant emerald brooch, but she'd thought it was green glass. And she loved it, because she loved him. One night she let her friend borrow it, and her friend happened to be dating a jeweller, who was aghast at the size of the emerald, and told her what it was. When Muzzy found out, she was heartsick. She didn't want her husband to go to jail, because she'd thought he'd stolen it. She took it to him and told him to take it back. That's when he told her he was a millionaire and not a thief. Then Muzzy says to Millie, "Now, Millie dear, I prefer emeralds, I really do...but we could have made it on green glass."
We could have made it on green glass...just don't tell me that it's an emerald, when it's not.
It was a lesson I needed, about honesty, about the crucial aspects of truth and integrity.
And in that moment I realized something... I need to apologize.
Andy, I'm sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry for what I put you through, and I can only hope that you'll forgive me, and that we can be friends. Because I miss being friends, and I hate to think of what my anger and my misunderstanding has done to what was one of the best friendships of my life. I'm so sorry. For everything.
Experience is a bitch of a teacher, but it doesn't mean you won't learn things. It's a hell of a method...the test first, and then the lesson.
But it sticks, and you remember it.
God, do you remember it.
End of Autumn
Rainer Maria Rilke
I have seen for some time
how everything is changing.
Something rises and acts
and kills and causes grief.
From one time to the next
all the gardens now are not the same;
from the yellowing to the
golden slow decay;
how long that path has been.
Now I stand amid emptiness
and gaze down all avenues.
Almost to the distant oceans
I can see the solemn ponderous
relentlessly denying sky.
I feel a kinship with the lemon peach tree in the backyard; its fruit harvested early, the leaves dirty gold and sloughing off too fast to catch and savour. Too soon for it to collect itself and don some other girding. This past week the wind changed direction and the tree and I have been rendered bare and reaching toward the sky. At our feet lay the million tiny reminders of what we were, and how things had been. Paralyzed in straining upward, someone else must rake up our pieces, or the ground collect and eat them - our past and little lives.
My roots plunge hungrily through the dark underneathing, a search for some meaning in the decay of former selves to feed and progress, to eat in the months of cold and hestitant sunlight. I shiver, exposed, at the touch of the breeze, and ask myself why I could not have kept my green and guarded growth. I ask myself what I could have done to stay whole. I ask the nothingness about change and why it has stripped me naked and set me before the elements. It was not me. Nothing I did has put me where I am now. Each leaf had let go, and the harsh wind swept me of what needed me no longer. Or rather, I am only rid of something I never actually had. The leaves exist in themselves, it seems. Still, I shiver. Still, I reach. Bitter, the growth of a new skin comes only after the long, cold thrash of darkness, of being numb. Soon, my sap will freeze in my veins; my brittle outward self suddenly second to what I am in the earth below that bears, supports, and warms me.
I don't know your face no more. Or feel the touch that I adored. I don't know your face no more. It's just the place I'm looking for. We might as well be strangers in another town, we might as well be living in another world. We might as well...We might as well...We might as well... I don't know your thoughts these days, we're strangers in an empty space. I don't understand your heart; it's easier to be apart. We might as well be strangers in another town. We might as well be living in another time. We might as well... we might as well... we might as well be strangers, for all I know of you now. For all I know.
It's so easy, you see, to imagine yourself sitting in the pieces of things and wondering what you could have done to keep it from breaking. The hard part is realizing that there was no thing to begin with. The breaking of something, I can take. It's when what you were holding so carefully in your hands is suddenly gone. When you look at the spaces it was and realize that it never was. You held it, you touched, smelt, and loved it, and then someone comes and tells you that it never existed. That you couldn't have held it and loved it, because it was never...there. Or anywhere. It's easier to have something broken. It's easier to have something lost. It's the empty that kills you. It's the empty that drains the blood from out the holes that you believed were full.
I used to think that truth was something stark, something stoic...steadfast, immovable. That truth was like a pillar, or a foundation. Then you hit it, and find that truth is more like a bullet train, or a mack truck. At least, that's what it feels like. But it is a pillar, it is a foundation. It is some vast, stark immovable thing. You realize it was there the whole time, and that it didn't hit you...you hit it. And not only do you hurt immensely, you feel a prize idiot for not seeing it there the whole time.
Well it's a lonely road that you have chosen; morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore. And it's a long time since your heart was frozen...morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore. For a moment your eyes open and you know all the things I ever wanted you to know. I don't know you, and I don't want to - till the moment your eyes open, and you know that it's a lonely place that you have run to. Morning comes, and you don't want to know me anymore. And it's a lonely end that you will come to...morning comes. And you don't want to know me anymore. For a moment, your eyes open, and you know all the things I ever wanted you to know. I don't know you, and I don't want to. Till the moment your eyes open, and you know.
The problem is, I was so damn close to hitting the nail...but I was still that crucial bit off, and when the hammer bounced, and pegged my thumb, I was completely surprized. And I cursed my thumb, I cursed the hammer. I didn't curse the fact that the nail was in the wrong place, the wrong wall, the wrong house... you set yourself up for these things, you know. When you're just so cocksure that you're right. That you've interpreted the wrench in your gut perfectly. I got the picture right. I was just looking from the wrong angle. It's never happened, before. Not like this...I mean, sure I've been cheated on. That is a grief that I know, and am acquainted with. That is a failure that I can accept. I expected the disappointment of a broken thing. I never could have guessed the agony of everything - everything - rendered non-existent, and myself rendered cheap and dirty.
It's one thing to be cheated on, it's another thing entirely to find that you have been the tool of his infidelities. It's just what you feel like, too. A tool. And then, oh agony, you blame your goddamn self for it. You cram the hurt into your mouth and suck on it hard, hoping it will stop...that you can erase the hurting too. I have been a lot of things...I've been a fabrication, a bitch, an invalid, a helpmeet, a better half, an evil half, a whole bunch of halves, a student, a drop-out, a lover, a hater, a rebel with and without a cause, a geek, a dork, an intellectual, a poet, a sister, a daughter, a friend, an enemy.
I'd never been an unwitting mistress. It's a new taste.
Do you know what it tastes like? It's foul. The putrid aftertaste of food-poisoning vomit when you've eaten at a second-rate Chinese hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and then - to go a step further - the only thing you have to clean that taste out of your mouth is feces. You feel like drinking bleach, or Pine-Sol(tm), or having someone scrub your soul out with Comet(tm) and a toothbrush. And you didn't even make the mess.
The worst of it comes when your empathy makes no exceptions for the situation. When he calls you crying, wanting pity and a warm embrace and every fiber of your heart is screaming to give it back, to stop his hurting. Because you yourself are so accustomed to hurting; you know it. And that it's no big deal if you hurt, you just don't want anyone else to. And then you ache not only for yourself, but for him. While you're force-fed shovelfuls of reality, empathy washes it down with pint after pint of a blind pity for the captor, the villain, the beast, the lie. And then you fight not only the pain, you have to fight yourself. You have to fight the nurturing aspect of yourself that only wants to fix and help and love. The parts of yourself that still love him, because they feel sorry for him, because they know him well enough to understand the why of things.
You realize that in the moment you feel the weakest, the worst, the most wretched, you have to be strong. You have to finally - finally - take a stand for yourself. And swear you won't let it hurt you more. That you won't cave. That you'll do something for yourself, because you respect yourself the way he didn't. That you honor yourself, the way he didn't. That you have faith in yourself...the way he didn't. That you love yourself. The way he didn't.
Then you are left alone, in quiet and aching, and your imagination wanders to what-ifs. And you fight it away from them for as long as possible, but they come in barrages, and your walls have already been broken. What if I had still been sick...still am sick? What if this had been the last year I had or have, and six months of it were stolen from me? What if I had known about it all along, and the truth wasn't a surprise...would I still have traded the fucking love of my life for the fucker of my life? I wondered about Dan. I wondered about what could have been, with the kinks ironed out, if I hadn't been so distracted by what seemed so genuine at the time. We talked this weekend, and cried a lot, he's having such a hard time now that Su's gone psychotic and hallucinatory on him again, and he talked about how he went for her because everything I'd done told him he'd never get me back. And I let myself be angry and sad - in the middle of the night, when I could be angry and sad no one would know....
So many what-ifs. So many hard, sticky places you can't let yourself sink into. You have to keep moving. You have to pick out the things that you learned and can be grateful for.
Do you know that line that Muzzy says to Millie, in "Thoroughly Modern Millie" starring Julie Andrews? It's a ridiculous movie, really, but over and over I've been thinking about the line...where she's talking about her deceased billionaire husband, and how she found out he was a billionaire. He'd given her this giant emerald brooch, but she'd thought it was green glass. And she loved it, because she loved him. One night she let her friend borrow it, and her friend happened to be dating a jeweller, who was aghast at the size of the emerald, and told her what it was. When Muzzy found out, she was heartsick. She didn't want her husband to go to jail, because she'd thought he'd stolen it. She took it to him and told him to take it back. That's when he told her he was a millionaire and not a thief. Then Muzzy says to Millie, "Now, Millie dear, I prefer emeralds, I really do...but we could have made it on green glass."
We could have made it on green glass...just don't tell me that it's an emerald, when it's not.
It was a lesson I needed, about honesty, about the crucial aspects of truth and integrity.
And in that moment I realized something... I need to apologize.
Andy, I'm sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry for what I put you through, and I can only hope that you'll forgive me, and that we can be friends. Because I miss being friends, and I hate to think of what my anger and my misunderstanding has done to what was one of the best friendships of my life. I'm so sorry. For everything.
Experience is a bitch of a teacher, but it doesn't mean you won't learn things. It's a hell of a method...the test first, and then the lesson.
But it sticks, and you remember it.
God, do you remember it.
Democratic Donkeys
TNPer
All is forgiven but not forgotten.
Thanks, Andy. That's all I can ask for. And I promise things will be different from now on. No more me getting offended over something retarded and then being an ass about it to you.
If it happens again, you can punch me.
In other news, today's been a fantastically good day, and that totally shocked me. But I'm definitely not complainin'.
I have some poems.
forge
for Dylan
i forgive
you. you were
a stepstone
to the otherside of
a river.
clearly because
in sunlight he
was waiting,
on this otherside
for me.
density
for Shaun
eternity functions
outside of time.
in godspeak:
mytime is not
yourtime.
myways
not yourways.
mytime is
no time; is movements,
is moments
of changing.
here is a bright fruit.
this will make you
happy.
so simple,
impossible
a word.
juice will run
downchin, see
i bit. it
filled me.
Yup. That's all for today, kiddos.
If it happens again, you can punch me.
In other news, today's been a fantastically good day, and that totally shocked me. But I'm definitely not complainin'.
I have some poems.
forge
for Dylan
i forgive
you. you were
a stepstone
to the otherside of
a river.
clearly because
in sunlight he
was waiting,
on this otherside
for me.
density
for Shaun
eternity functions
outside of time.
in godspeak:
mytime is not
yourtime.
myways
not yourways.
mytime is
no time; is movements,
is moments
of changing.
here is a bright fruit.
this will make you
happy.
so simple,
impossible
a word.
juice will run
downchin, see
i bit. it
filled me.
Yup. That's all for today, kiddos.
Current news:
Not all boys are dorks. Or wankers. There are three who aren't.
(Kronk: And...uh...I'm one of those two, right?)
Also, I'm reading an excellent book that you all should read too. It's called Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer.
I'll report to you when it's finished. It's beautiful and funny and sad and compelling. Read it. You'll love it.
Though I get the feeling it's going to break my heart. (If you've read it, don't tell me!! Or I'll get out the angry face.)
That's all. Been too busy at work today to write any poems, but I'll post them if I do.
Love ya, bye!
IG
IGEdit: Curse you, tags! CUUUURSE YOUUUU!!
Not all boys are dorks. Or wankers. There are three who aren't.
(Kronk: And...uh...I'm one of those two, right?)
Also, I'm reading an excellent book that you all should read too. It's called Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer.
I'll report to you when it's finished. It's beautiful and funny and sad and compelling. Read it. You'll love it.
Though I get the feeling it's going to break my heart. (If you've read it, don't tell me!! Or I'll get out the angry face.)
That's all. Been too busy at work today to write any poems, but I'll post them if I do.
Love ya, bye!
IG
IGEdit: Curse you, tags! CUUUURSE YOUUUU!!
Nothing new to report. Grated a bunch of skin off my thumb knuckle friday afternoon making spinach salad. Feeling kind of ill lately. Not sure why. It's probably just the blood thinner the doc's got me on. It's okay! I only have to take it till February. 
I bruise and bleed like a mother. It's not fun. Bleargh.
So...the Jags beat my Boys, but I'm not too bent out of shape about it, becauseParcells has huge man-boobs my Cards kicked the trash out of the Niners. Bwahaha. Hooray for Arizona getting a stadium. I'd road trip down to watch a game, but they're sold out for the season. Sadness.
Shaun says I'm allowed to get on the Jags' bandwagon. I might. Though I think it's funner to jump up and down on the couch and yell at each other about the other's team sucking. And then have a great round of make-upsex conversation later. Or during halftime.
This past week has been crazy, but currently I'm totally happy. And it's so odd. Things feel so...right...lately. Like, all the shit that happened was supposed to happen so that I could be here, in this place, right now.
I love it. I love so many things.
And it's football season, and the trees on the mountains are changing, turning red. It's gorgeous. Colorado got the first snow of the season yesterday. I love it when the mountains get snow.
Sigh. Happy. In such a cheezy happy way.
AND I have a job interview tomorrow. For a fulltime with benefits job. $12 an hour. Plus commission. Right down the street from here. And it's a computer job! Yay computers.
Only one poem from this weekend:
my love of my love for things
she builds you.
i loved
the idea that i could
build you.
she's wide-eyed embracing
a world less
disillusioned, she gnaws
your faithfulness
twitching the bracelet
on her wrist, she counts
you, and you, and you
in each bead.
her dead baby hung
on the hopes of more
to come.
of yours. she sits
on the end of her empty couch
to wait for your return,
some emotional
sprawling.
she bails you,
her lifeboat.
her breath in your sails. splashed
wave-humping, you
mount and drop.
mount
and drop.
she steers you
through the peaks and
troughs.
her body
in your body.
her dreams so close
to sinking
each time, as if
they stand on fishes,
she wields you her Jonah,
too tight to you
in the storm
to sink you instead.
hopes you save her
on the other side, and
gives no damn for Ninevah,
or any number
of God's giant fish.
a sleeperhold handful.
her ass on your palms.
as long as you're shipwrecked
without
any qualms.
That's the last one for you.
Out till tomorrow, kids.
IG
IGEdit: some extra words.
I bruise and bleed like a mother. It's not fun. Bleargh. So...the Jags beat my Boys, but I'm not too bent out of shape about it, because
Shaun says I'm allowed to get on the Jags' bandwagon. I might. Though I think it's funner to jump up and down on the couch and yell at each other about the other's team sucking. And then have a great round of make-up
This past week has been crazy, but currently I'm totally happy. And it's so odd. Things feel so...right...lately. Like, all the shit that happened was supposed to happen so that I could be here, in this place, right now.
I love it. I love so many things.
And it's football season, and the trees on the mountains are changing, turning red. It's gorgeous. Colorado got the first snow of the season yesterday. I love it when the mountains get snow.
Sigh. Happy. In such a cheezy happy way.
AND I have a job interview tomorrow. For a fulltime with benefits job. $12 an hour. Plus commission. Right down the street from here. And it's a computer job! Yay computers.
Only one poem from this weekend:
my love of my love for things
she builds you.
i loved
the idea that i could
build you.
she's wide-eyed embracing
a world less
disillusioned, she gnaws
your faithfulness
twitching the bracelet
on her wrist, she counts
you, and you, and you
in each bead.
her dead baby hung
on the hopes of more
to come.
of yours. she sits
on the end of her empty couch
to wait for your return,
some emotional
sprawling.
she bails you,
her lifeboat.
her breath in your sails. splashed
wave-humping, you
mount and drop.
mount
and drop.
she steers you
through the peaks and
troughs.
her body
in your body.
her dreams so close
to sinking
each time, as if
they stand on fishes,
she wields you her Jonah,
too tight to you
in the storm
to sink you instead.
hopes you save her
on the other side, and
gives no damn for Ninevah,
or any number
of God's giant fish.
a sleeperhold handful.
her ass on your palms.
as long as you're shipwrecked
without
any qualms.
That's the last one for you.
Out till tomorrow, kids.
IG
IGEdit: some extra words.
Dad says I need to stop being content with thinking that I'm stuck in neutral when, really, I'm just sliding backwards all the time.
I thought about this.
I though about Yankel in Everything Is Illuminated: falling in love with things he never had because he lied them into existence on some plane of his reality. Re-running thoughts in his head. I am not sad. I am not sad. I had to do this for myself.
I am not sad.
Someone how the sadness is bearable when the rest of the world doesn't know about it. Sometimes we realize that we love the idea of loving something, and we don't actually love the something.
What color is it? It tastes like red. It is red. But we cry, because it's not more red. It's not redder. The red we crave doesn't actually exist.
Volunteer, Dad says. What do you want? Don't say nothing. Everyone wants something.
I want to know what I want. I want to really want something so badly that it motivates me out of stagnation. It motivates me out of shuffling my circles at the beginnings of things.
Just finish something. Find something you can finish, that's not the top score of a game. That's not a book you've already read. That's not re-sorting your CD collection.
Finish something that you can put on a resume.
Finish something that will prove to the other people that you're worthwhile.
Dad said: If I don't come home from this trip, I don't want you to think that I thought you were a failure. I believe in your potential. I believe in your possibilites more than you believe in them.
I can't find love in this language. I'll learn another. I can find any more questions, I just have lapfuls of answers that I don't know where to put.
Get over your instant excuses. Lesser people that you have gotten over harder things than you to do things.
DO THINGS.
Do things you can finish.
Finish the thoughts that lead to motivation from knowing what you want.
Get out of your cave. What do you do in your room all day?
I read. I sleep. I draw. I write. I write. I write. I love things that I feel like I should love.
I love the idea of wanting something you love. I want the idea of something. I want the something of an ideal wanting.
I just want to find what I want. And I can't.
It's in the more red, and I haven't found it here.
And I'm tired of the filler. I'm tired of striving for some interesting melancholy instead of just plain melancholy.
You write because writing gives you second chances. Because writing, in itself, IS a second chance.
What do you mean, then, when you say you were born to be a writer?
Nobody will hire you, or pay you, for half-finished things.
I am only the beginnings. I am afraid of wanting things to the point of being compelled into completion.
What happens at the end? You can finish failure. I am crippled by the fear of completing my mistakes. You can't run away from something you've finished. Finished means a total commitment.
I don't want the things written in stones.
I am dry erase. I am fingerpaint on the tile floor.
See my chalk, my slate layers, peel off and crumble...
...so easily displaced.
I thought about this.
I though about Yankel in Everything Is Illuminated: falling in love with things he never had because he lied them into existence on some plane of his reality. Re-running thoughts in his head. I am not sad. I am not sad. I had to do this for myself.
I am not sad.
Someone how the sadness is bearable when the rest of the world doesn't know about it. Sometimes we realize that we love the idea of loving something, and we don't actually love the something.
What color is it? It tastes like red. It is red. But we cry, because it's not more red. It's not redder. The red we crave doesn't actually exist.
Volunteer, Dad says. What do you want? Don't say nothing. Everyone wants something.
I want to know what I want. I want to really want something so badly that it motivates me out of stagnation. It motivates me out of shuffling my circles at the beginnings of things.
Just finish something. Find something you can finish, that's not the top score of a game. That's not a book you've already read. That's not re-sorting your CD collection.
Finish something that you can put on a resume.
Finish something that will prove to the other people that you're worthwhile.
Dad said: If I don't come home from this trip, I don't want you to think that I thought you were a failure. I believe in your potential. I believe in your possibilites more than you believe in them.
I can't find love in this language. I'll learn another. I can find any more questions, I just have lapfuls of answers that I don't know where to put.
Get over your instant excuses. Lesser people that you have gotten over harder things than you to do things.
DO THINGS.
Do things you can finish.
Finish the thoughts that lead to motivation from knowing what you want.
Get out of your cave. What do you do in your room all day?
I read. I sleep. I draw. I write. I write. I write. I love things that I feel like I should love.
I love the idea of wanting something you love. I want the idea of something. I want the something of an ideal wanting.
I just want to find what I want. And I can't.
It's in the more red, and I haven't found it here.
And I'm tired of the filler. I'm tired of striving for some interesting melancholy instead of just plain melancholy.
You write because writing gives you second chances. Because writing, in itself, IS a second chance.
What do you mean, then, when you say you were born to be a writer?
Nobody will hire you, or pay you, for half-finished things.
I am only the beginnings. I am afraid of wanting things to the point of being compelled into completion.
What happens at the end? You can finish failure. I am crippled by the fear of completing my mistakes. You can't run away from something you've finished. Finished means a total commitment.
I don't want the things written in stones.
I am dry erase. I am fingerpaint on the tile floor.
See my chalk, my slate layers, peel off and crumble...
...so easily displaced.
de(s)cent
they are merely crying;
the rivers run toward drying
on the edges of where they lay.
a dirtbed repose at the end of day.
i have no inner metaphor for the river.
i write because my hands stay busy, quiver.
in words: an easy way to feel you've completed
a thought you shared, that you pretend was needed.
they are merely crying;
the rivers run toward drying
on the edges of where they lay.
a dirtbed repose at the end of day.
i have no inner metaphor for the river.
i write because my hands stay busy, quiver.
in words: an easy way to feel you've completed
a thought you shared, that you pretend was needed.
Indie! Feels like ages since we talked. As recompence I'll bastardise a song for you.
I may not always IM you,
But long as there is spam above you,
You'll never need to clout me,
It's like a drought without thee,
God only knows what we'd be without you!
If you should ever quit here,
Though OOC would still go on believe me,
The forum could show nothing to me,
So what good would posting do me?
God only knows what we'd be without you!
God only knows what we'd be without you!
God only knows what we'd be without you!
...fade.
Next week I'll mangle Good Vibrations to include OP in some way.
I may not always IM you,
But long as there is spam above you,
You'll never need to clout me,
It's like a drought without thee,
God only knows what we'd be without you!
If you should ever quit here,
Though OOC would still go on believe me,
The forum could show nothing to me,
So what good would posting do me?
God only knows what we'd be without you!
God only knows what we'd be without you!
God only knows what we'd be without you!
...fade.
Next week I'll mangle Good Vibrations to include OP in some way.
CaptainChaos
TNPer
Indie Girl, i absolutely love your work, i have been reading it for some time now, well since i joined and i think it is remarkable.
Holly
Holly
Sydia! My darling! How I've missed thee!
Eh up, cock? How was Mexico? Did you take full advantage of the new drug laws? I never made it past the border to see you. Though that probably has a lot to do with not really trying...
We don't really have to rework any songs to include OP, unless they involve a lot of cursing. But I'm a bigger person than that. (Allegedly. As far as you know.)
It's so marvelous to have you back. You should email me. Since I can email more at work than I can do much of anything else, since the brain gremlins have confiscated our upper management's sense of morale, and they've taken our IM away.
I haven't really written anything, since I've been puking my guts out since Friday, because I ate a raw enchilada-style chicken burrito from a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, and didn't realize that it was raw until about halfway through it. The irony is that I didn't even WANT an enchilada-style chicken burrito. I wanted a grilled chicken burrito. But that's probably my fault for not habla-ing espanol. Go figure.
I liked the time they put speed in my burrito way better than this experience. I should have known. They only put speed in the burritos after 10 pm. I had gone for lunch. Silly me.
And Holly, thank you so much for the props, kudos, comments, etc. And the hug. I totally needed it.
So
back for Holly, and a 
for Syd. Because I missed him and I'm still secretly in love with him, so I reciprocate when I get the chance.Peace and carrots,
IG
P.S. I needed to share this with you people:
the only way to defeat them is to become one of them
Last edited:
Thanks for the email! You're my hero and my favorite. All over again. For the eighth time this week.
Meanwhile, I took more advantage of the workday boredom, and scrambled out some babbling that I might pass off as poetry. For now.
the names of things and the things themselves
i've been reading Feynman.
i don't know why.
something about him provokes me,
and i have chosen to cling
to physics, to something sure,
in the midst of
my uncertainty.
my abstractions.
not theoretical physics,
which usually is the only thing
to interest me.
but raw, mathematic, Newtonian-style
physics 101.
ironic that i retreat to math, which i hate
and have never retreated to,
in the wake of all this if.
in the shower this morning,
rubbing suds out of my eyes and
wondering where my sister
pilfered my damn razor,
I went through old geometry notes
in my head.
one-half base times height.
one-half base times height.
it's not retreating...
it's advancing toward further victory.
sarge only said it to be funny.
but it's true.
isolated,
isosceles,
rooted in
the Greek word: isos.
means equal.
means seeming similar,
or similarity.
all things being equal,
my variability
is the only constant
in these equations.
who shall find my sum?
who can diffuse me into an x?
i want to know my circumference,
my perimeter.
define me my area.
Richard said, "we are trying
to prove ourselves wrong
as quickly as possible,
because only in that way
can we find
progress."
making sense
has always proved
me wrong.
Meanwhile, I took more advantage of the workday boredom, and scrambled out some babbling that I might pass off as poetry. For now.
the names of things and the things themselves
i've been reading Feynman.
i don't know why.
something about him provokes me,
and i have chosen to cling
to physics, to something sure,
in the midst of
my uncertainty.
my abstractions.
not theoretical physics,
which usually is the only thing
to interest me.
but raw, mathematic, Newtonian-style
physics 101.
ironic that i retreat to math, which i hate
and have never retreated to,
in the wake of all this if.
in the shower this morning,
rubbing suds out of my eyes and
wondering where my sister
pilfered my damn razor,
I went through old geometry notes
in my head.
one-half base times height.
one-half base times height.
it's not retreating...
it's advancing toward further victory.
sarge only said it to be funny.
but it's true.
isolated,
isosceles,
rooted in
the Greek word: isos.
means equal.
means seeming similar,
or similarity.
all things being equal,
my variability
is the only constant
in these equations.
who shall find my sum?
who can diffuse me into an x?
i want to know my circumference,
my perimeter.
define me my area.
Richard said, "we are trying
to prove ourselves wrong
as quickly as possible,
because only in that way
can we find
progress."
making sense
has always proved
me wrong.
And you make me feel like...a brazillion Chuck E. Cheese tokens.
I sent you another email, by the way...
And now, since I'm currently feeling lazy, and this bit of what I emailed to Syd made me laugh, I'm going to cop out and use it as my blog post. Until I get super-bored later and decide to add on to it here and there throughout the remainder of the day. Well, the workday anyway.
Good lord, I'm in a weird mood today. It's sad. In spite of it being International Talk Like A Pirate Day, which is my favorite holiday, I have hitherto spent the day in a rather foul mood due to a long bout of deck staining (nowhere NEAR as piratish as it sounds) which the Mum had me up and doing at 7 this morning. I mean, seriously, if I don't go to work till one o'clock, (13:00 for you people on...whatever that time measurement is called...it's not metric, is it? *Eddie Izzard doing his American impression* "Yah...get outta here with yer goddamn commie metric system!") why on earth would I need to get up at 7?
Besides, I was up until 2:30 this morning playing Mercenaries. I didn't intend to be up that early, but I lost all track of time hunting down renegade North Koreans. I think most of it was due to some subconscious fervor to find and kill the person who's to blame for Kim Jong Il's ridiculous haircut. And even though I know Mr. KJI 's not involved whatsover in the plot of Mercenaries, I still just got some sort of personal satisfaction knowing I mowed down a lot of North Koreans and probably got his barber somewhere in the mix.
I confess, there's also another reason contributing to my lack-luster piratey mood. I didn't have time to fix my hair today. Because I decided to spend as long in the shower as possible so that I could de-stain myself. And then, I had to throw on the first thing I could find, which turned out to be jeans, my Teen Girl Squad (What's Her Face!) baseball tee, a black hoodie, my pair of ancient Vans, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles beanie. Consequently, I am donning a sort of look I've named "Ubergeek the Gangsta" and that's about as unpiratey as you can get. If "unpiratey" were a word, that is.
And now, I'm here at work, and people keep eyeing my beanie with contempt and/or jealousy. It's not my fault they said it was a casual work environment and we have no dress code. (Well, except that you need to be dressed.) And there's not a lick of anything to do, so I decided to keelhaul you in the bilgewater of my ramblings.
It's the Cheeziest,
IG
I sent you another email, by the way...
And now, since I'm currently feeling lazy, and this bit of what I emailed to Syd made me laugh, I'm going to cop out and use it as my blog post. Until I get super-bored later and decide to add on to it here and there throughout the remainder of the day. Well, the workday anyway.
Good lord, I'm in a weird mood today. It's sad. In spite of it being International Talk Like A Pirate Day, which is my favorite holiday, I have hitherto spent the day in a rather foul mood due to a long bout of deck staining (nowhere NEAR as piratish as it sounds) which the Mum had me up and doing at 7 this morning. I mean, seriously, if I don't go to work till one o'clock, (13:00 for you people on...whatever that time measurement is called...it's not metric, is it? *Eddie Izzard doing his American impression* "Yah...get outta here with yer goddamn commie metric system!") why on earth would I need to get up at 7?
Besides, I was up until 2:30 this morning playing Mercenaries. I didn't intend to be up that early, but I lost all track of time hunting down renegade North Koreans. I think most of it was due to some subconscious fervor to find and kill the person who's to blame for Kim Jong Il's ridiculous haircut. And even though I know Mr. KJI 's not involved whatsover in the plot of Mercenaries, I still just got some sort of personal satisfaction knowing I mowed down a lot of North Koreans and probably got his barber somewhere in the mix.
I confess, there's also another reason contributing to my lack-luster piratey mood. I didn't have time to fix my hair today. Because I decided to spend as long in the shower as possible so that I could de-stain myself. And then, I had to throw on the first thing I could find, which turned out to be jeans, my Teen Girl Squad (What's Her Face!) baseball tee, a black hoodie, my pair of ancient Vans, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles beanie. Consequently, I am donning a sort of look I've named "Ubergeek the Gangsta" and that's about as unpiratey as you can get. If "unpiratey" were a word, that is.
And now, I'm here at work, and people keep eyeing my beanie with contempt and/or jealousy. It's not my fault they said it was a casual work environment and we have no dress code. (Well, except that you need to be dressed.) And there's not a lick of anything to do, so I decided to keelhaul you in the bilgewater of my ramblings.
It's the Cheeziest,
IG
Nothing bloggy to post today, but I have a poem I wrote yesterday evening, which I forgot to post before I left work.
In other news, I finally saw 40 Year-old Virgin for the first time yesterday. Holy crap, I have not laughed that hard since a conversation I had with my sister that went something like this:
Also, if you haven't started listening to Augie March yet, I hate you. You should. They are an awesome band. "Song in the Key of Chance" is on my list of Top Ten Favorite Songs That Aren't By Pink Floyd.
That's all. I'm off to finish my hunt for Deep Purple mp3s.
IG
In other news, I finally saw 40 Year-old Virgin for the first time yesterday. Holy crap, I have not laughed that hard since a conversation I had with my sister that went something like this:
My sister:
Me:
My sister:
Also, if you haven't started listening to Augie March yet, I hate you. You should. They are an awesome band. "Song in the Key of Chance" is on my list of Top Ten Favorite Songs That Aren't By Pink Floyd.
That's all. I'm off to finish my hunt for Deep Purple mp3s.
IG
