there's something wrong with our hearts
when they beat pure they stand apart
in the black room, the light, watch the seabird fall
real love, it finds you somewhere with your back to it.
My legs are bruised up from riding my bike, and being knocked off of it.
I wonder sometimes if there is anyone on this planet who wants to see me naked AND really get to know me, simultaneously.
Did I just say that out loud?
Yep, I did. Hitching my wagon to someone else's isn't my highest priority at the moment, however a part of me romanticizes a collaborative, mutually inspiring, cerebrally creative partnership that exists in relative inter-dependence. One day I'd love to have an arrangement a la Sartre and Simone DeBeauvoir; they were together and committed, but lived apart until their deaths. Wouldn't that be something? I'd truly love to be with somebody and still maintain my own space--free to mutter irrationally to myself, (or my cat), to listen to the same song over and over again whilst doing my work, to play some raucous accordion, to drink the whole bottle of wine, or let it turn to vinegar on the kitchen table. And doing some or all of the above NAKED.
On that note, I just moved in with a longtime male friend. I think it's going to work really really well. I can do all the aforementioned while living with him; (except not naked). Plus I will be saving mad scrillah to drop on plenty of trips this year, including a jaunt to New Zealand and thereabouts come November; and in the meantime a not entirely work-related trip to NYC come May. Santa Fe might sneak its way in there as well. Why? I have no fucking clue. I've always wanted to go.
Although I miss Dubrovnik. And Belgrade. And Spain...
when they beat pure they stand apart
in the black room, the light, watch the seabird fall
real love, it finds you somewhere with your back to it.
My legs are bruised up from riding my bike, and being knocked off of it.
I wonder sometimes if there is anyone on this planet who wants to see me naked AND really get to know me, simultaneously.
Did I just say that out loud?
Yep, I did. Hitching my wagon to someone else's isn't my highest priority at the moment, however a part of me romanticizes a collaborative, mutually inspiring, cerebrally creative partnership that exists in relative inter-dependence. One day I'd love to have an arrangement a la Sartre and Simone DeBeauvoir; they were together and committed, but lived apart until their deaths. Wouldn't that be something? I'd truly love to be with somebody and still maintain my own space--free to mutter irrationally to myself, (or my cat), to listen to the same song over and over again whilst doing my work, to play some raucous accordion, to drink the whole bottle of wine, or let it turn to vinegar on the kitchen table. And doing some or all of the above NAKED.
On that note, I just moved in with a longtime male friend. I think it's going to work really really well. I can do all the aforementioned while living with him; (except not naked). Plus I will be saving mad scrillah to drop on plenty of trips this year, including a jaunt to New Zealand and thereabouts come November; and in the meantime a not entirely work-related trip to NYC come May. Santa Fe might sneak its way in there as well. Why? I have no fucking clue. I've always wanted to go.
Although I miss Dubrovnik. And Belgrade. And Spain...
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
No, I will not do your laundry. I have to do mine first. Last weekend, I found a buyer for my washer and dryer, so I unhooked everything and moved both machines out to the porch. He came over with a dolly and we rolled both machines down the stairs. There were times where the machines would tip, and I thought I was going to get squashed. All of this and when we finally got the machines to his apartment, he complained about how they looked and wasn't willing to make the effort to maneuver them into his utility closet (a task that I had done by myself earlier and would have required a modicum of effort). Two machines, that work better than they look, for $100. So I have to move them both back into my utility closet this weekend.
We found a box of gym clothes that knocked us on our asses after we opened it. I mean, we kind of had to wash it before we sent it back to his family. We also found a box of something else, but his family's never going to see it.
Dealing with death is an experience, that's for sure, but I don't envy those who deal with it on a regular basis. When my uncle worked as a detective in New York and cooperated with the transit authority, he would have to deal with those train-related deaths we talked about earlier. One of the worst, he said, was the time a woman leapt along with her two children. I think I'll be fine if I don't have to deal with death, let alone suicides, for a while.
I'll see what I can do about getting a passport. I may be able to get one by mid-April, but that's entirely up to how proactive I am. I still think it's weird that I need a passport to drive into Canada, though.