Much love for the boot-ay.
Some very cool dude named Ben wrote a well-meaning, albeit clumsy, poem for my ass. Kick ass.
I don't know why I can't be Mr. Black
I think I may have Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
Try not to judge.
Lies, Damned Lies and War
"The first casualty, when war comes, is truth." Senator Hiram Johnson, World War I
One of the most rewarding and significant things I re-learned how to do this year is pray. I have discovered a very comfortable and unique sort of conversation with God that, in essence, leaves a lot of things unsaid but entirely understood.
Today, I am praying for the people of Afghanistan.
KPMG is a commercial company that doesn't appreciate people linking to them. So I did. Who do they think they are, anyway? [via kottke]
I spent my Saturday morning reading through all my old journals from high school. Most of my poetry and prose seemed to be centered around butterflies, lost love and self-loathing--typical juvenile scribblings.
My favorite was always this one; the only one good enough to see the light of day:
Driving home after the film festival
and out of the corner of my eye,
you are folding, always folding that
silver square of gum paper, studying passers-by.
"Who are you looking for?," I want to ask.
And you are counting vans, naming puppies in rear windows,
humming some song I can't quite place,
In your new sweater not worn for me,
you reveal restless hands,
hold them beyond my reach,
flesh, not teasing like our first time together.
And the second time.
I ask how it was, my voice leaves.
You say the show was "Great. Just great."
and chewing on your gum you slide through stations
too easily to catch a signal, or hear a clear voice sing,
and I wait for the static to cease, watch your jaw work
eye your tongue as it slips out and around drying lips.
"The voices in the radio may all be pods," I say,
"They take you over in your sleep, it is almost instantaneous."
You tell me those old sci-fi flicks don't excite you,
don't show enough
and I remember how you cried for Old Yeller one Sunday afternoon,
legs folded on the under-stuffed chair hugging Dandelion,
her tiny cat hairs spreading around you with each painful squeeze
"Did the pods take you while you slept?," I want to ask.
"Did they pop from slick-green ovaries to fine-scrub
your thoughts with an atomic toothbrush, floss away our memories with toxic silk, did they?"
But you're picking lint off the sweater I gave you--
your face puckered with displeasure at tired wool.
To my questions, you would laugh, maybe even sneer
because whoever she is--this cultivator of pods,
this creator of nuclear-aged toothbrushes--
she smells of sweet vanilla, her fingers leave pink stains behind your ears.
Her breath fills my car as you cough,
and when I turn my face to you
at a noiseless red light, you greet me with a smile
that is all instinct and teeth.
I'm Got Much Back
Thursday, November 29, 2001
Well, holy shit. As you can see in the post below, I have been reading rabbit blog since I discovered it on MetaFilter some weeks ago. One night, giddy on two glasses of Robert Mondavi Woodbridge Chardonnay I decided to write the rabbit.
And the rabbit, wise in her ways, replied.
(If you are wondering, yes my ass is, in fact, large. Why did I decide to procure advice from someone with a cute fuzzy tail, you ask? Who would've ever thought she'd publish my letter...)
"Nervous about meeting J tonight." --Zen, or the Skill to Catch a Killer.
Rabbits are funny.