d.a.r.l.i.n.g., all of it

i can torture myself in oh-so-many-ways. calling it now my newest, specialest talent. yes! i know that specialest is not a word! sometimes i feel like the specialist speller.

i think of other things, and quite easily, once i try, slightly. this morning, sleep deprived and sticky, and hungover, i guess, although i'm barely sure how that could have happened, my fingers shook while i mixed something. i forget what, and believe me, it's completely irrelevant, as is the way that i spent the subsequent hours. beside the point, all of this, really.

this afternoon, again, i am not at work

maybe i could be working my finger-tips on an arts&kulture blog; prattles of mundanity string along. i have found: three fourleaf clovers. the first now in a book, maybe forgotten but with nowhere else nearly so logical to go. the second, lost, likely, but in a supreme gesture. third in the mail tomorrow. to you?

so i suffered and suffered, cursing the poison and willing it out. i pounded my fists, really, and was kissed, after all of that, a thousand times, through my hair, even. and again, thank goodness, oh my, the newest day came.

no complaint, here, but the song still kept playing, and i sang it like i liked it, over and over, until i realized, slapped it out, and sang lover's spit to drown it out. irrelevant. time now for libations: wakk-y wednesday.

in factuality:

i used to use capital letters, in my first blog post. now it's like my fingers have gotten as lazy as my mouth. you know, i wish the song playing on repeat in my head would turn lazy like that, and quiet down or, better yet, warp like they do it on the tee-vee dee-vee-dee.

and to return, briefly, to the aforementioned guru (robert motherwell, if you're just dying to know), he tells me so proudly, and with such authority, that painters have a language, but that they don't even know what it is! they just start painting, and not knowing anything of what will emerge doesn't even begin to discredit their genius. imagine that, and when i do, i just sit down and begin.

this day has been: incredibly long (not as long as yesterday; yesterday was twenty-four hours!)

feeling is: consequently enjoyable

some people thinks it's fun, you know, to get annoyed? and i almost did it, on purpose. now, here, i am not waiting on people anymore. i am brainstorming creative ways to waste the day, have begun my afternoon in the swatting sunshine. i learned, while somehow i did not waste time at my dead-bet, dead-ened job, the difference between feeling and emotion, according to the should-be guru of my wanton life as an artist: the emotion, in short, carried like a baby in the womb, while the feeling, paling in comparison, is the warmth of the day outside; the feeling outside setting off, all of a sudden, the emotion inside.

i find myself so overly credulous when reading this. he himself even says, maybe this writing has no validity; i'm attempting to explain how i feel about feeling. me? i've never wondered about the difference, and this resonates with me, too.

the next day, again

a salesgirl tells a man, in this story, "i talk to you in my head all the time". he holds open her glove for her, or a mitten, a red one. rambling in ink records so many more small and otherwise forgotten anecdotes; in my efforts to be vague, i wonder where the attention to detail will jog my future memory. that one thing that happens, though, where i remember remembering things even since a wind-up toy in an otherwise forgotten hallway, can surely help me repeat the associations and recall even that sweet little thing. i may have to break down and write it into thee old idiary, because i know i just can't say it.

another thing i remember: the power lines, and knowing that they spoke to something dead, belittled as i put them into print, and only treasured years later as they still meant just the same thing. sixteen of them, maybe, lined up just where i couldn't not see them, before lights started to go out.

earlier in the day: drinking mexican coffee, wondering if you like my outfit, being reminded to be embarrassed of a thing i know i must have done but just can't recall. remembering a line with no memory of what it meant, its origin destroyed in little fanfare: i am falling off the proverbial bike.

lullabies 1

and, cleverment is humiliating, and what isn't lately? i could make a list: shoulder shrugs, neck rolls, olive kitteridge, breakfast. babirds (i meant to write babies, but apparently have birds on my mind). someone drunk across the way likes birds too. what do i like?

being me is easy

i was dehydrated this morning but wanted a jar full of light brown coffee so bad, and had it, and sweet iced peppermint tea. i dreamed, scattered hours, almost, and felt pleased at my mind for imagining things so clever. when we were awake, when i slept, i felt the same, desperate, and his mouth was there. the lover's spit: wow.

and (no, really): another baby.

blog lives

all the animals are here, with me. me? i'm shaking, and sweating. five oh-clock bike rides? i just ain't in a big enough hurry, i guess, and right after a story of motorcycle death, rambling my detestations for drivers. another ride, survived; can i survive two cups of coffee? uh huh, this is the problem. why am i blogging? i should be eating.

how apropos

so, more babies coming, and from where? faces turn white, and they're tracing their last five months of steps. entertainment almost lost on a little creature; head flailing. and joy.

yester-day i was really just so bored i couldn't even blog. all day: staring and watching, getting paid to atrophy my brain and my positive mental syndrome. to-day, a whole new one!


the only production of yesterday here:

radio murmurs
baby bird opens his eyes
rambling of juntas

proud all in blackbets

so why why why why why does it shift (it? vaguaries bore you, do they?) on the course of a rainy walk, subtly and steadily? soggy boots, wetwoolwarping, and then, this: [if i reveled in bad days, as i sometimes resist not-doing, i'd find it almost perfect] splashing through a puddle, slowly in my shoes, no harm, almost home and almost dry. a car, or, no, a person in a car, protected thank god by steels of ambiance. and splashes me, the big way, looks maybe back to see me scowl. but just for fun, i admit. i get inside, sun comes out. i blog.

also, this:

i've spoken too soon: this morning, walking with something onmydress. look-ing down, up, sky smelling like honeysuckls. downward: the twig split into two, but this time, pointing backleft, backright. what did it mean? (and i mean to get an answer here) 

back to bed, most likely?

a sorelorn hobbbie

the blessings are in disguise, but where are mine? i count one, two, three. up to ten maybes on my fingers if i wanted to. and maybe i do. the sun's outside, the typewriter's just inside a sunny window, collecting pollen dust; and me, where am i? the internet, oh! it waits just there while i plan my own high-stringing. i get smart, wide-eyed, and find you, one by one.

my ego thanks the bird in everyone's art else's than mines. they just get right in there, and oh it's pretty. instant. metaphor, and go.

omg-like

thanks to the stumpgrinders for making my windowsill sunnier; time's a waste, and what other past-times do i find?

my mama blogs about looking down, and when i have, i've seen sticks divided in two, pointing left and to right. looking to the horrorscopes for help, i learn to plan for the next eight years, but i only get as far as tomorrow's breakfast and counting quarters. now that i avoid the kitchen i don't listen to the clock tick nearly as often. i get on onetrain oneperson, and descends une autre le meme.

spit in the eye; identity theft: thirty five years for saline-ated impudence. now he waits for the disease to set in, fuming, de-noculated. but, oh! avenged.

big hardbreak

circuitous provocations, walking away from angry instigations: the tricks i taught myself at the tail end of my juvenility. i've got a bad attitude, i guess, or i like to pretend that i do; i'm working on it. (PMA, inc.) why say brickbats when really you just mean bricks? bricka-bats of bread. hurtling through space.

my dreams: topless on someone else's front porch in the ay-em. handed a phamily photo. in(sur)mountable blasts from my sorted past; i saw you, and you, and you.

The Name (by Louis Jenkins)

Instead of an idea a name comes to you, a name that no longer has any connection to the owner of the name. It sounds merely rhythmic, musical, exotic and foreign to your ears, a sound full of distance and mystery. A name such as Desmond Tutu, Patrice Lumumba or Menachem Begin. You forget the names of acquaintances and the name of your first true love but this name comes to you. It repeats like a tune in your head. It refuses to go away, becomes a kind of mental mumbling. You say it to yourself over and over. It is your mantra, "Boutros Boutros Ghali..." Then suddenly as it came, the name vanishes.

Deep in the night, long after your own name has flown away, a voice wakes you from a sound sleep, a voice clear and certain as the voice that summonded Elija, saying "Oksana Baiul."

and also, these, less famous, funny still: Glonnie Turbyfill
Errol Dunkley

the first is my mantra. the latter, Andy's.

yum yum morning times

since i've lost most of my priveleges here, i've spent this morning at work penning my blog entry on strips of receipt paper, and looking for new words by rearranging the letters in signs i see on themilktruck: getmilkloseweight. milkburnsfat.com (bratsclaimfun.kom). i drank milk in my koffee but i think the kaffeine is helping me lose weight more efficiently; i can't stop shaking. yip, yip. i slept three hours, can't see straight. but i feel clever.

and i didn't mean to seem charming, but i somehow gave a man two coffees for the price of three-fourths of one. incidentally i dreamed about serving this same grey haired man coffee a few weeks ago. last night i dreamed i ate a blueberry muffin. weird. i am wasting my time. my dreams bore me.

wai guru

i tell my mom of future plans and she thinks that they sound familiar.

as of now, i need a mixer and a baking pan, and i need to find them in the next hour or so. but a baby's coming over, and i bet she'll want to paint. paint. paint.

summer basketball babies pound cake. my blanket is out on the roof.