Does this happen to anyone else? On transit or sitting and waiting for someone with no reading material, nor paper nor pen. A passage of words occurs to you and you simply must write it down. Searching pockets produces a marker. Is not the logical thing to write it out in full on your clothing or body?
I would like to think it happens to everyone, but as I have yet to see legions of people wandering about covered in awkwardly scrawled text, I suppose I must be somewhat more the eccentric. Please – anyone? I’ve covered at least three pairs of pants now, and put off countless showers so I could write down what I so hurredly put onto my skin.
I’d like to think this isn’t pathology.
It’s a bad time to be near me when I have to write something down and have nothing. It’s one of the few times I’ll feel true frustration. Heads get bitten off, heads go rolling. I approve because I can use the blood to write along the hem of my t-shirt.
The phone just rang, a woman from Wales calling long distance. She’s doing the geneology of her family and has reached the Holmes branch. I love how her accent compliments her voice, like the ultimate strict yet kindly librarian. She was looking for a Mr. Holmes, but we chatted a little in spite of it. We’re fairly certain that we’re related. I think she’s looking for my uncle, who’s in Winnipeg.
I think I might start liking the phone again if that’s the sort of thing that ends up on the other end. I’m growing a bit distant from it. Maybe that should change. Last night I got a call from a friend of mine, odd conversation about how he can’t talk about what he’s doing for the british consulate, but he’s certain he’s doing the right thing. It made me happier. Balanced out the hippies some.
Jason’s here now, so I’m afk.
(Sorry Warren, it’s his birthday – I’m whoring you out)
*stretches* Now that was a bit more successful. Nothing like hippies and painfully bad text to dispel lingering romance. I’ll have to remember the trick. Keep a file on hand of atrocious prose to be offended by to banish soft fluttering. With the world the way it is, I can’t imagine it to be a difficult thing to find in spite of having never tried. My time on-line’s been blessed with the sane. I’ve been told it’s unusual to not run into horrid folk here, but so far I’ve only found the intelligent and the wonderful. Really, I hardly ever encounter pop-ups. It’s like St. Jude watches over my wanderings. (Bless her and thank her for being).
Now if I could only manage to do so properly in realtime. The world of flesh and bones. I woke to a mixture of fire painted canvases, space flight updates, and essays on Greek philosophers. My mail-box opening to give me a blueprint for a theramin and a letter from a friend trying to work me out. Oh world, how I love thee, with moonlight and starlight and unexpected friends. With technocrat saviours and microchip dreams. It’s a splendid universe to play in, in another ten years it can only be better. The trick is to make it there without someone killing me in a jealous rage.
I think I may write up a form letter.
I am uninterested in your suit. Your company, though pleasant, is not enough for me to desire your sex.
Thank you for your interest,
The candles have made it so hot in here that I can pour the cold from my gelati in a smokey stream that pools in the hand. It’s like playing with dry ice. I feel lucky to have had my time with it before Ryan unexpectedly buzzed up. This week he’s going back east for an undetermined length of time. Tonight he brought over the other roommate Luke. He was over last night as well. It’s sweet he wants to spend time, but I’m suspecting that I was being shown off a little tonight. (Which makes no sense whatsoever). I love that I live a life where friends may drop by at midnight without preamble, but also it would be nice if they were slightly less likely to monologue about psychedelics and how world politics is the groaning of the earth mother. Please feel free to talk about such things, but do so even vaguely informatively else I will want very much to tromp all over you with verbal spiky boots. Wake up and smell the literacy people. This is now, this is when you need to know about if you want to change any of it. You need to know about a problem before you can fix it, yes? I’m not going to smile and nod and agree that “our will is the next source of power, with it we can push spiritual light to turn back the nukes”. Don’t tell me that you are uninterested in learning more about your world because you think it’s depressing enough already. Take this. What’s happening and what’s next. The Drive is endemic to patchouli children, I know, but in my box, either learn or take your djembe elsewhere. Enough, though. There, I’ve rinsed that stale water off of me.
So that was not exactly annoying, but more effort that I would have cared to spend. I was attempting to create a comforting den of iniquity, not an evening of applying warpaint. I suppose I’m just not destined for wickedness. If nothing else, my lover decided he was going to attempt to be naughty. This was a bit of a mistake. However wonderful, the man simply should never attempt to write desire ever again. Not even in waterside love letters written in sand. The ocean will erase them, but not before I get to stand there embarrassed. I would rather he write dry sermons. There is a flavour to language. There is a notation of meaning attached to the vocabulary. Want not half so interesting as need, though not to take. To mismatch splay with extract, well – there’s not a lot I can say about it. Dissection comes to mind. Frogs laid out for the incision. I thought all readers picked this stuff up. Enough books and doesn’t it bleed into your conscious? Learning the emotives and associations through osmosis. Ah well, I’m not a writer. I’m not even a hack. What do I know? Just as likely someone will now tell me that the word splay is very sexy.