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.