harlequinky

G: Eh, who wrote The Jungle Book?

R: ...Phil Collins!

My Yolanda state of being has me looking back on sanity with only some nostalgia!

We were not lovers, nor friends,
comrades, of gay math jokes and awkward schoolmate love,
then we didn't speak for a while.
my bruised ego, your distance, my silence, your silence-bruised ego.
sounding like car alarms in the dead of night,
everybody hearing,
but not doing anything because they know
we are lounging, lazing,
leaving love licking
itself,
cats on cold tin roofs.

For the first in a long time, I feel fulfilled-- peoples, auditions, liberalism, honey eyes, nerding out, and reading good news for once.

My friend wishes she looked more Eurasian.
Somedays i wish i could just yank a paperbag over my head.

Sorry, uhum, excuse me, sorry.. HI!!

I don't know why, but I cannot bring myself to post. 
Except for this one. Grrr. 

Sometimes when you see great and not so great things, quaint and quiet pretty, you stand in awe, your cameras, your pens, hang limply in hand. Stop failing capture the sentiment, stop trying .. to make art out of their history, arrest your goddamn neurons for a bit and just look. In stopping to drink it all in, you take in too much, your faculties of thought slow down. And you're lost, drunk on beauty. 

Zis has been the basic premise of my bumming stint.

Such dualityhas left this agog pav-lover floating in the sea of indecision, where usual Zen philosophies take you (tokyo!) drifting. 
Aiyah. Saltwater melts your meringue-- trust me and my electric whisk. Cocoa too. 

Btw. I like moulding young minds. All that evil and idealism is infectious. (:

it seems to be that poets arrive at the same conclusions.

 "In a world regulated by market prices and dominated by rational choosers, we may have to put up with inequality." 
-Anne Phillips

"Of course. You go to your job, right at the old hotel, left,
then left again. You love this job. Apt sounds
mark the passing of the hours. Seagulls. Bells. A flute
practising scales. You swap a coin for a fish on the way home."

"Then suddenly you are lost but not lost, dawdling
on the blue bridge, watching six swans vanish 20
under your feet. The certainty of place turns on the lights
all over town, turns up the scent on the air. For a moment
you are there, in the other country, knowing its name.
And then a desk. A newspaper. A window. English rain."
-Carol Anne Duffy's In Your Mind.

And just as a tidbit:
In Rudyard Kipling's Jungle Book stories, Raksha the Demon is the name of the Mother Wolf who adopts the 'man-cub' Mowgli.

Ooookay. Let's prepare for the aftermath.

To blog is to be unafraid of mediocrity, one post at a time.

yessiree.

Reggie still makes me tear somehow. And while I'm sitting outside, reminded beyond comprehension that there's something so inherently fucking wrong with how I live, he turns to me, still smiling about the peanut's lament, and asks me if i'm okay.

(what did letters to cleo repeat in chorus? that it's cruel to be kind?)

embarrassed, i make a face, thinking he sees right through, and make an excuse.
"ohh, i just listened to loveology.."
he makes a face, half-believing tenderness.

For Steph, and everyone else out there living in hypothetical hell..

I keep tearing up nowadays, i dunt kno' why. i cant tell if i'm just tired and blah or actually sad. Or repressing something. 
But i dont really want to deal with that. 

"On nights like this
when the world's a bit amiss
and the lights go down
across the trailer park
I get down
I feel had
I feel on the verge of going mad
and then it's time to punch the clock

I put on some make-up
and turn up the tape deck
and pull the wig down on my head
suddenly I'm Miss Midwest
Midnight Checkout Queen
until I head home
and put myself to bed

I look back on where I'm from
look at the woman I've become
and the strangest things
seem suddenly routine
I look up from my Vermouth on the rocks
a gift-wrapped wig still in the box
of towering velveteen.

I put on some make-up
and some LaVern Baker
and pull the wig down from the shelf
Suddenly I'm Miss Beehive 1963
Until I wake up
And turn back to myself

Some girls they have natural ease
they wear it any way they please
with their French flip curls
and perfumed magazines
Wear it up
Let it down
This is the best way that I've found
to be the best you've ever seen

I put on some make-up
and turn up the eight-track
I'm pulling the wig down from the shelf
Suddenly I'm Miss Farrah Fawcett
from TV
until I wake up
and turn back to myself

Shag, bi-level, bob
Dorothy Hammil do,
Sausage curls, chicken wings
It's all because of you
With your blow dried, feather back,
Toni home wave, too
flip, fro, frizz, flop,
It's all because of you
It's all because of you
It's all because of you

I put on some make-up
turn up the eight-track
I'm pulling the wig down from the shelf
Suddenly I'm this punk rock star
of stage and screen
and I ain't never
I'm never turning back"
-Wig in a Box by Polyphonic Spree

temporarily anyway. :]

back to the faeces! i mean. thesis!

Quiet, petered out hibernation with John allusions, purple John economic bibles, and my John Jacob Jingle Hammer Smith. 

SEEZ!

Die, Malvolios of the world. 
Or get over yourselves or something. 
RESIST TRYING TO GRATIFY YOURSELVES SO YOU'LL FEEL ASSOCIATED WITH SOME KIND OF POWER.
UGH. 

Nothing like righteous indignation to ruin a perfectly idyllic night.
But I guess I'm getting righteous about being righteous, eh. 
Hoho. 

(do people turn to righteousness because there's no knowledge that you can be absolutely sure except morality??) 

[edit] but who cares right? hahah. why do i ask these qs. [/edit]

I love love love it that she's back. I've frriggin missed the way we used to talk, just the two of us, and all at one moment be serious and then silly, and cynical and idealistic. It's twoway therapy that distance had stunted like mongoloid children, and as if a miracle cure for a little window in life, walk again, because, like we used to joke, we were each others crutches.

"i love the chosen one!
loving him is lots of fun
we love the chosen one!
not as much as me!
i love him with all my heart
love him with my body parts!"
-worshippers of vince pretending to be the chosen one

...K.

britis haf destraayed ouver kantry fer hundred fifty ears. 
laat us destraay theeir landguaage pharever. :D
haappy yindian yindependence day, yaar!

i confess. 
i like mercury rev. okay i'm gone.