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I can do this, it is not a big thing, but a series of linear points, christmas lights on a string, perhaps not causing their illumination but instead willing them to shatter. Pop! Pop! Pop! The pulse of the flashbulb holds our shadows, our moment in the tide.

I wrote a love letter to myself today. It said, "Time marches on, Fucko." I allowed myself to finish reading the book, anyway.

I am beginning again to see lived life flow past the buoys of mentally constructed eventualities. "Maybe we're just having an off week. Fuck, that's it! We're just having an off week." Reassurance can only lie in belief of the cyclical, I think. I think that I will stop thinking this, and start to think it again. I think that I will stop thinking this, and start to think it again. I will see that I am thinking this, I will think that I am seeing this thought. I will become still and respire. In and out, out and in, the most basic process of holding on to this voluptuous iteration is itself a cycle.

"I live by the ocean
And during the night
I dive into it
Down to the bottom
Underneath all currents
And drop my anchor
And this is where i am staying
This is my home"
Current Music:
Debut- Bjork
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A grey film cradles all of the objects of today. God is a 12 year old bored at home on a computer with dial-up internet, passing the afternoon adjusting the contrast on this picture of his mind's creation. I am in a kitchen straight out of a 1930's comic vignette about paying for a meal by washing the restaurant's dishes, cutlery and plates and knives and bones stacked essentially floor to ceiling. I am dressed in a way that makes me long for the almighty to copy and paste me into a photo of snowy Norway. Whenever I've felt like this, for as long as I've been tasked with dressing myself, I have put on a hood. Once it was always black; now it is often bright pink and water resistant. This is maturity in some shape, a drawing together of emotional lines, their threading into a coherency and a safety that is not impenetrable but stable nonetheless.

There is a peach pie in the oven, non-vegan. It's not for me, anyway, and buttery flavor will suggest my love for the pie's recipient: this pie is about you, not me and not about accelerating destruction of history's bubble of plenty. I'm looking forward to transporting it on my back, on my bike: I will rig something up reminiscent of that day in high school when we are all inevitably tasked with hurling an egg from a great height and not allowing it to break. Little pie, I will protect you from my velocity with toothpicks and plastic wrap and good old make-do. Le bricolage? I can't remember right now. Set the time machine for three years ago, for a snow-laden dark, dark night outside and a three hour french class inside. Set the time machine for two years ago, midnight in minneapolis, climbing the lions in front of the MIA and Kaz saying (and me misinterpreting, beatifically), "We've got security." I hugged him on the silent skype today and was cast into darkness, but we'll play fast and deleuze and build better tools.

Hey! There will be so many hugs.
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So many dreams about drowning, children.
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So ever since this weird old man who had the hots for my ex-boyfriend's mom in the 90's came and sat on my couch and tried to tell me a story about a fried chicken store in french and then put his face on mine, I can't stop listening to the cure.

My bra unhooked itself while I was walking past resplendent collegiate youth loling it up in the grass. It slid down my arms before I could get to a place of propriety, so I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled, anti-loling it up all over the Mall.

Then there was Henry and the laundry room 15 and The Sexual Life of Catherine M.

Life is weird and I find myself in skeezy, breezy places, trying to fill this forever away from you.

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C’était le soir de jeudi comme la plupart des autres. L’heure s’approchait vers dix heures. La rue était désertée et le monde était en ordre. Tout à coup, le repos des fleurs qui dormaient avant résidence 240 était dérangé par un objet qui a écrasé par la fenêtre. Une casserole a mis à terre entre les rhododendrons et les primevères. C’était suivi par une troupe de trois cuillères, deux assiettes (un en plastique jaune, l’autre en porcelaine anglais bleu) couverte par le résidu des œufs brouillés, un pot à moitie plein de pates séchés avec des champignons moisis et, finalement, cinq bol incrustés par des céréales du temps anciens.
La source des ustensiles projectiles était un jeune couple comme le plupart des autres. Ils se sont regardé fixé et furieux devant l’évier de la cuisine.

« Ah bon, nous mangerons au resto médiocre ce soir, comme tu veux, ma petite, » il a craché.

La dispute, comme la plupart des autres, a commencé à cause de leurs estomacs vides. Il avait voulu qu’elle cuisinier. Elle avait voulu qu’il l’emmener au resto. Il argumentait qu’ils gaspilleraient trop d’argent si ils ne mangeaient pas leurs provisions avant les pourrirent. En tout cas, est-ce qu’ils n’essayaient pas de faire une maison ?
Tandis qu’il présentait son discours passionné sur la vie de famille propre, l’estomac de sa femme a mis à gronder. A ce moment, elle a soulevée la casserole avec les deux mains et l’a jeté par la fenêtre.

« Qu’est-ce que tu as fait ? » il a chuchoté, sa confusion dépassant tout. Elle répondait seulement avec le vol des cuillères et des plats. « As-tu perdu ton cerveaux ? »

Elle sourit. « Je ne peux pas cuisinier dans un cuisine sale, donc je suis en train de nettoyer un peu, c’est tout, mon beau mari. » Le pot et touts leurs bols étaient aussi martyrisés avant qu’il a concédé.

Au resto, la tension dissoudrait. Ils rencontrent des amis et la groupe passait la soirée ensemble tranquillement et avec un sentiment chaleureuse. Il réfléchit sur la situation pendant qu’il était enveloppé par la légèreté du vin. « Elle avait eu raison, » il pensait. « Nous sommes jeunes, et parmi des amis. C’est la belle vie, ici, à table. Nous aurions le restant de nos vies de diner chez nous. » Il la a regardé avec tendresse et il s’est senti du plaisir quand il a vu une sourire dans ses yeux. Désormais, tout va aller bien.

Ils venaient de rentrer quand elle lui a arrêtée avec son bras. « Mon cher, quelque chose est louche. Ou sont les plats ? » C’était vrai- le jardin n’était pas encore un charnier des ustensiles. Prudemment, ils continuaient vers la porte. Ils ont entrés dans leur maison. Le salon était tout en ordre. Ils ont assistés sur le canapé, leurs jambes liés comme des serpentes, leurs estomacs pleins et contents. Quelle importance ait des plats cassés à ce moment ? Absolument aucune.

« Mmmm, » elle a soupiré. « Je voudrais du dessert. Je crois que nous avons de la glace vanille dans le frigo. Je vais l’emmener ici. »
Il l’a chatouillé. « Ah, maintient tu voulais faire la cuisine, hein ? » Elle a rit et a disparu vers la cuisine. Il l’a suivie et il a pris sa main.

Quand elle a allumée la cuisine, le mystère des vaisselles était résolu. Leurs restes étaient dans l’évier, mais pas avec les autres qui n’avaient pas voyagées dehors. En fait, à part que ces vaisselles, la cuisine était toute vide. Il n’y avait pas rien. Même les provisions avaient disparues.

Le couple ne dirait rien. Il a relâché sa main. La vente qui venait par le troue dans la fenêtre soufflait contre le rideau que quelqu’un a les donné comme cadeau de mariage. Il a commencé de pleuvoir.
Current Location:
Current Mood:
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Don’t need you to tell us we’re good. Don’t need you to say we suck. Don’t need your protection. Don’t need your dick to fuck.
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Psychopomps (from the Greek word ψυχοπομπός (psychopompos), literally meaning the "guide of souls") are creatures, spirits, angels, or deities in many religions whose responsibility is to escort newly-deceased souls to the afterlife. Their role is not to judge the deceased, but simply provide safe passage. Frequently depicted on funerary art, psychopomps have been associated at different times and in different cultures with horses, Whip-poor-wills, ravens, dogs, crows, owls, sparrows, cuckoos, harts and Yamatoots.

In Jungian psychology, the psychopomp is a mediator between the unconscious and conscious realms. It is symbolically personified in dreams as a wise man (or woman), or sometimes as a helpful animal. In many cultures, the shaman also fulfills the role of the psychopomp. This may include not only accompanying the soul of the dead, but also vice versa: to help at birth, to introduce the newborn child's soul to the world (p. 36 of [1]). This also accounts for the contemporary title of "midwife to the dying," which is another form of psychopomp work.

Current Location:
HHH computer lab
Current Music:
rollerskate aguayo
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This week in history:

+ hickies
+ being asked to come over to a boy's house at 2:30 to "uh, watch E.T. or something"
+ Schoolhouse Rocks! songs stuck in my head
+ remembering the whole Counrtney Love and Evan Dando fucking scandal
+ the liberation of candy mountain
- having my foot impaled on candy mountain
+ shanti valiantly saving my bike from going ker-chunk evermore
+ running into Kelsey and Rambo at Owen's birrhday/ Carrie's coming home party
+ the unveiling of Dane's hair
+ the secrets of pie
+ meeting an MDID India-er
+ carrying a group presentation on Maoists in Andhra Pradesh on two hours of sleep
+ being lovingly zipped in to my new but vintage glorious bazooms dress
+ seeing a woodpecker
+ accidentally finishing an intense history essay a week early
+ jogi
+ instant palek paneer, pickles, cadbury eggs, grapefruit
+ french maids, 12 times in 14 hours
+ the Borat computer mouse couple
+ BMC, Margie and the textbook bagel
+ Mr. Blue
+ so much more that I forget right now
Current Music:
my hero, zero (such a funny little hero)
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MAYER: It wasn’t as direct as me saying “I now make the choice to bring the paparazzi into my life.” I really said, “I now make the choice to sleep with Jessica Simpson.” That was stronger than my desire to stay out of the paparazzi’s eye. That girl, for me, is a drug. And drugs aren’t good for you if you do lots of them. Yeah, that girl is like crack cocaine to me.

PLAYBOY: You were addicted to Jessica Simpson?

MAYER: Sexually it was crazy. That’s all I’ll say. It was like napalm, sexual napalm.

PLAYBOY: But before you dated her you thought of yourself as the kind of guy who would never date Jessica Simpson.

MAYER: That’s correct. There are people in the world who have the power to change our values. Have you ever been with a girl who made you want to quit the rest of your life? Did you ever say, “I want to quit my life and just fuckin’ snort you? If you charged me $10,000 to fuck you, I would start selling all my shit just to keep fucking you.”
MAYER: Because I want to show her I’m not like every other guy. Because I hate other men. When I’m fucking you, I’m trying to fuck every man who’s ever fucked you, but in his ass, so you’ll say “No one’s ever done that to me in bed.”
Current Music:
just a friend- biz markie
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Oh, no. I don't make you feel happy. I just make you feel guilty.
Current Mood:
heady sighs
Current Music:
bodily gurgling, crunching
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