i heard you late last night, I wish I had my distance
Tumblr, how the hell do you know that I have to cram for this paper and so shutdown on me. How, how, why?
Whenever I find a really good song, or this case being introduced to one, there's a certain dread that comes with it as I press the play button repeatedly or set it to repeat a thousand times. It's such a good song but only at the time, since it wears off later and I am totally uninterested in it.
Current song list of victims aka the Arthur/Eames playlist:
-- Phenomena - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
-- Say Goodnight - Little Children Jump
-- Sway - The Kooks
-- You Only Live Once - The Strokes
-- Aren't we all running? - 65days of static
-- Speeding Cars - Imogen Heap
Yes, I'm trying to school myself in talking about something else than the typical writing musings but at the same time I wonder if this is some kind of euphemism about if I was the relationship type. Oh what short relationships they will be. Filled with broken hearts and broken plates, people stepping in the shards and going how the hell did I get here.
(Can't you tell, I'm secretly a romantic.)
Today is Monday, it is the 6th of December and I am fully awake at 7AM in the morning, housesitting a house that is not mine and taking care of children that are skeptical of the newly turned twenty-two year old me.
In other words,
Relax -- Ellen Bass
Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter's age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she's a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat-
the one you never really liked-will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours, for a month.
Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you'll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn't plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you'll come home to find your son has emptied
your refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick up-drug money.
There's a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs halfway down. But there's also a tiger below.
And two mice-one white, one black-scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here's the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you'll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You'll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.
Whenever I find a really good song, or this case being introduced to one, there's a certain dread that comes with it as I press the play button repeatedly or set it to repeat a thousand times. It's such a good song but only at the time, since it wears off later and I am totally uninterested in it.
Current song list of victims aka the Arthur/Eames playlist:
-- Phenomena - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
-- Say Goodnight - Little Children Jump
-- Sway - The Kooks
-- You Only Live Once - The Strokes
-- Aren't we all running? - 65days of static
-- Speeding Cars - Imogen Heap
Yes, I'm trying to school myself in talking about something else than the typical writing musings but at the same time I wonder if this is some kind of euphemism about if I was the relationship type. Oh what short relationships they will be. Filled with broken hearts and broken plates, people stepping in the shards and going how the hell did I get here.
(Can't you tell, I'm secretly a romantic.)
Today is Monday, it is the 6th of December and I am fully awake at 7AM in the morning, housesitting a house that is not mine and taking care of children that are skeptical of the newly turned twenty-two year old me.
In other words,
Relax -- Ellen Bass
Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter's age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she's a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat-
the one you never really liked-will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours, for a month.
Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you'll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn't plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you'll come home to find your son has emptied
your refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick up-drug money.
There's a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs halfway down. But there's also a tiger below.
And two mice-one white, one black-scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here's the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you'll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You'll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.