on one of my first days at university,

September 15th, 2005, I wrote...

so it looks like i got me some more time to kill. there is a metal bird-dinosaur that rocks endlessly back and forth and i wonder if it is the wind or the subtle tectonic shift that creates its dance. here i am with bad hair and a sweaty disposition trying desperately to disappear. if i was invisible or even one of those girls who no one looked twice or even once at i would be so much braver. right in front of me is a little wee thing of face paint and the sun beats its waxy aroma into the air in funny pulses that only i recognize as such. what i really wish was that these goths would see, there's more to makeup than looking endlessly like weeping antoinettes all over the place. he has inched his way closer to her. i commend his attempt but it is all for naught. we always have this psychic extrasensory upper hand in the battle, which is to say, dance, of the sexes. oh come on. it's not so bad as to merit pity in your eyes. well, maybe it is, but you don't know me. if you did you'd understand; i'm a bad luck child, through and through like all that moaning old school blues. my story would be at home told over a twelve bar beat in a husky voice after downing dark beer sitting on a sagging porch by the muddy mississippi. oh but we are all cultural thieves, trading, bartering, collecting it in jars like so many fireflies. and in the end, just like those darting lights on our small horizons, hold it too long and too hard and it dies. so i leap from each nearly melted iceberg to the next, just like everybody else while the wise amongst us are building steel ships thta may indeed last forever but funding will get avro'd just before completion. and here i am fantasizing about guerrilla warfare thanks to the sentiments of aforementioned face paint which gets me to reminiscing about those long summer flag-capturing days spent with water pistols and bikes and high-pitched hollering to each other through restricted backyars like the bad-ass twelve-year olds we always were. fuck what i'd give just to look normal. and i know i know, but its so hard to study people when you're such a research project yourself. and i've got mad hair and a dark eyebrows and a funny-shaped way of being...and now the pattern of this picnic table is coming out into the wibbly shapes of my letters. is it two yet? i have no concept of time and my tummy hurst due to too much coffee all at once and no food and i think my innards are still all dried up as hell due to extensive alcohol consumption but my GOD it was worth it. what HEP CATS those kids were, all aware and aching for emancipation for this failing structure, all endlessly preparing for revolution, capable at any moment of bursting forth into utopian colonization of the new generation. i hope my clever numerical presentation inspires its use, because those cats be my PEOPLE and i've been looking for them all this time and they're the sort that would listen if i sang them my blues and would help me write it better with the strains of theirs and would turn it softly towards rebellion and make it mean more than sadness...oh i am stoned without herbal supplements most days.

-written on a picnic table in the courtyard of lady eaton college while waiting for the history departmental secretary to get back from lunch so i could get a course add/drop form.