agonizing, how long it takes. frigging agonizing. alas, here i am.
BBC has a series called "people like us". listed are "the journalist" "the vicar" "the doctor" "the policeman" and "the farmer". for kids? hmmmm... let's see.
grr. the sound isn't working except on audiograbber. poopy pants.
in other news, did i mention i was bored? as heck? and feeling like poop?
oh
i did.
well then.
i should be responsible and try to read some of this stuff.
tata for now.
Saturday
So They're Here Now
smoking, drinking (green tea, to be precise) and carrying on (about boobies, to be precise) and i still feel lonely and bored and i'm worrying more about my paper than i should be, really, because my exam is a far more pressing concern, but the words won't go in my head in these in-between-cd moments and i'm feeling antsy and tired and sick of all this scene, but i did hear some good tunes, by Arbra Hill and Kate Reid, the latter of which really spoke to me and i so think we could jive because she's talking about small towns and road trips and her heart being behind her guitar and how hard long-term relationships are and all those classic folky things but at breakneck word-flinging speed more attuned to a rap or a beat poem, so i like it better than most folk, though i think her voice isn't that great but she's trying, right and that's what counts in all this madness and i was thinking about wirelessness the other day and wondering what that does to your brain, all those things all floating around, but there are so many more damaging things floating around, i can't help but think, because of all these smokers and drinkers and phobics all exhaling fumes and rude remarks and it matters what people think deep down, you know, because it comes out at people at odd moments and that's what makes people feel bad or uncomfortable but that doesn't make all this political correctness any less wrong because it's stifling, it is, and how are we supposed to have a dialogue, a discussion, without people being able to say what they really think and how are they, those who would say silly dumb things about other people, supposed to learn if we just tell them "no you can't say that because you're not supposed to" and so on, and the cd's done ripping so i gotta go, but there are my thoughts for the moment and i think i need to do this more often even if it's to no one in particular, so that i don't get out of practice, cuz that's what happens and then i don't tell my love all the random things i think and then she feels like she's in the dark, and rightly so because so much goes through my mind in a minute that even i feel that way sometimes, so why am i so fricking quiet all the time, except when i'm performing for people i don't care about at seminars and dancing for people who make me nervous, when all i really should be doing is being as open and honest as this for the one, the one person i've ever trusted with all this madness and here it is, for her and for me, and now i have to go rip another cd. peace.
I Feel Like Poop
I Feel Like Poop
Because
I Called My Love
To Tell Her All About
What Her Body
Is Doing
In My Head
And Then She Told Me
I Was On Speakerphone
The Worst Bit Was
I Also Told Her
About A Poo
That I Had Only Recently
Had
Luckily
That Came Before
I Told Her About Her Body
And So I Heard
The Uproarious Laughter
From The Car
Filled With
Her Mother
Her Son
And Her Ex-Husband
I Feel Like Poop
in other news, i'm here at work, with no one around, and they're playing "audio art" which is basically the art of confusing people into thinking their radios are not tuned properly. uck. but hey. whatever floats yer boat.
i feel confident enough in saying that no one sees this to add to my poem a short explanation of how pretty and sexy and lovely my love is. and there it was. a short explanation, which i always want to spell "explaination" as "explain" is the root word, and also the root meaning. but, like wednesday, that would make too much sense for english. anywhoooooo...
it's been altogether too long since i've been completely de-clothed, outside of showering occasionally, of course. and being de-clothed is an action, as well. an action that hasn't happened TO me, as it were, for nearly three weeks, i swear.
it goes without saying, i hope, that these are the expressions of a girl who is stressed and tired but horny as heck, and are not to be taken seriously at all.
i feel like singing in italian some soft drifty song that turns out to be all about how the singer wants sex. if i knew italian, all of the above would seem far less dirty somehow.
poop, just for further explAInation, is my personal word for DAMNED EMBARASSED. which is to say "em-" (as in the prefix meaning "to make") "bare" "assed". the sum of the parts is that i feel no less like a child than i always do, no less observed than i always do, and no less an embarassment than i always do, and no more free to be who i am than i've ever been - meaning NOT free, really, when it comes right down to it.
i mean with her, yes. but our lifestyle is such that being with her is not ever JUST with her. but oh i am the saint of patience (not really, but i'm meant to be. if i really was, i wouldn't even be saying this stuff) and one day, over the rainbow, we will have some privacy at some point. not from her son, of course, but that's okay. it's the myriad of other people that make it feel so crowded.
of course, maybe i should just be less embarassing. maybe it's strange to tell the one you love about your bowel movements, or about how naked she is in your head. maybe it's strange to draw with chalk in your twenties, to want to make strange tea-hot-chocolate combos in the wee hours of the night, or to play guitar mid-afternoon in your room. maybe i'm strange. maybe i should be less strange and then all of this em-bare-ass-ment would be less omnipresent. but i have a strange feeling that the one i love wouldn't like that very much, because it would be fake. and i have a feeling that the one i love is just as strange as i am, when not observed by those who would judge her. i want to see all of her strangeness, so i assume that she wants to see all of mine.
if she does, she knows where to look.
i feel like poop.
i feel confident enough in saying that no one sees this to add to my poem a short explanation of how pretty and sexy and lovely my love is. and there it was. a short explanation, which i always want to spell "explaination" as "explain" is the root word, and also the root meaning. but, like wednesday, that would make too much sense for english. anywhoooooo...
it's been altogether too long since i've been completely de-clothed, outside of showering occasionally, of course. and being de-clothed is an action, as well. an action that hasn't happened TO me, as it were, for nearly three weeks, i swear.
it goes without saying, i hope, that these are the expressions of a girl who is stressed and tired but horny as heck, and are not to be taken seriously at all.
i feel like singing in italian some soft drifty song that turns out to be all about how the singer wants sex. if i knew italian, all of the above would seem far less dirty somehow.
poop, just for further explAInation, is my personal word for DAMNED EMBARASSED. which is to say "em-" (as in the prefix meaning "to make") "bare" "assed". the sum of the parts is that i feel no less like a child than i always do, no less observed than i always do, and no less an embarassment than i always do, and no more free to be who i am than i've ever been - meaning NOT free, really, when it comes right down to it.
i mean with her, yes. but our lifestyle is such that being with her is not ever JUST with her. but oh i am the saint of patience (not really, but i'm meant to be. if i really was, i wouldn't even be saying this stuff) and one day, over the rainbow, we will have some privacy at some point. not from her son, of course, but that's okay. it's the myriad of other people that make it feel so crowded.
of course, maybe i should just be less embarassing. maybe it's strange to tell the one you love about your bowel movements, or about how naked she is in your head. maybe it's strange to draw with chalk in your twenties, to want to make strange tea-hot-chocolate combos in the wee hours of the night, or to play guitar mid-afternoon in your room. maybe i'm strange. maybe i should be less strange and then all of this em-bare-ass-ment would be less omnipresent. but i have a strange feeling that the one i love wouldn't like that very much, because it would be fake. and i have a feeling that the one i love is just as strange as i am, when not observed by those who would judge her. i want to see all of her strangeness, so i assume that she wants to see all of mine.
if she does, she knows where to look.
i feel like poop.
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