chuba

i AM happy, actually! albeit in a shut-down, numbed-off kind of way. very all-amercian-style.

ah, unrequited love. what's up with you and that, you punishment glutton? still, sounds like you're getting your kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames. dare i say: good for you.

summer makes me feel so feckin creative. which is al-right.

i'm afraid what popped to mind first was x-factor. this is the thing: a dude friend of mine was talking about his new girlfriend, ticking off all of her plus-es (good breeding - he literally said that - , nice tight dancer's body, pretty face, great work ethic, attentiveness to her family and to him, vulnerability, etc.) and i was like DUDE. a loved one isn't the sum of his/her parts. if you love a freak, you love a freak, there's nothing you can do about it. you fall in love with what's just behind your loved one; what teases you in the periphery but can't be looked at squarely and can't be named (notice how i killed two birds there by absolving myself of the naming task!). he just didn't get me. he went back to the checklist. the thing is, some people fit the list, but there's no effing spark or whatever. some people are ugly, irresponsible, can't make a bologna sanwich to save their life yet make you limp when you think about them. ("them" being someone i knew well for about a year about two years ago, but i digress, it could be anyone, just an example . . .) man, too much green tea for kenyon.

there's something masochistic, thrilling, and oddly satisfying about unrequited love. anticipation is sometimes an ends unto itself, like the way daydreaming feels so goodl

i don't know what the fuck i'm talking about, yet i SO do, too.

heh. i like you being underhandedly confrontational. you treader of water between classes and general demographic markers, taking notes while treading, not better necessarily, certainly not worse, sometimes trading in but copping to it, so there.

allthetiiiiime

heh, the dishwasher ain't the half of it. i'm talking about washer/dryer in the bathroom, baby. as for the manilla envelope, i thought you'd never ask. the point's in the asking. the envelope itself is just stuffed with shredded documents.

Yours is so "profile" I can see Parisian divorce' written all over it.

sigh. tou-fuckin-che. sometimes i just want to dish it! why the checks and balances - why must i always have to take it as well?

shiiiiiit.

as always, your poems are so right when you get into the famed, cliche'd, yet oh so true "space in between the words."

thank you.

i wish i could give more to everyone in my life. to the people i care about. it's so hard for me to receive more than i give. i'm making it my mission to get ok with that. let's just hope i don't get TOO ok - what a curse to be a money-grubbing biotch without the nubile youth "goods" w/ which to back it up . . . curses . . .

honestly, i've daydreamed about pulling a watered-down version of an anna-nicole. that's as far as i've gotten. the closest thing i have to a husband right now works in a building clearly labeled "not for profit."

shame? what the fuck is that.

celebrating my parisian divorce at least??

[Edited on May 11, 2006 5:22PM]

just an fyi - this soothes when little else does. the sort of wholesome/provincial-ness is somehow the right butter for my burn.
------------------------------------------------------------------

LET EVENING COME

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

- Jane Kenyon

i read your 2 part india thing. it's hard for me to focus, but i did my best! i'm glad there's dialogue, which grounds it. you definitely have your own voice, which is key. watch the hyperbole. remember to "show, don't tell" whenever possible, however trite that order may be. i didn't enjoy it as i normally would have, because my brain is truly scrambled in a way that i can't explain, but that's beside the point. i know you have talent, you know it, keep writing. oh, i love the very last line.

wish i could offer more, but i can't. consider my honesty a compliment.

thank god for rys. i thought i was gonna have to do it - which i still will if you need me - but i'm the biggest technotard ever. i had to throw out the same plea, and other taught me, now that i think about it. i'm here as backup if you need me!

i still plan to read the 2-part piece you wrote, btw.

Yea, I dont know you either but that dosent stop you from being right. Happy Falling out of a vagina day is funny shit

i wasn't thinking so much about writing. i think that's a pretty active thing. i literally meant just letting my hair grow. passive=being acted on (in this case, by my own physiology). lots of times, i'm too tired to read or write at all. so i have to devise ways of thinking about life that feel like i'm making art, or at least changing my perception of the world and/or interacting with others creatively, without necessarily moving a muscle or speaking, sometimes.

and . . . SCENE!