... and nobody cries / there's only butterflies (c)
I am choosing the above line as my formal meditation image / f-u message to the ugly side of life because nothing, or, to be precise, very few things compare to it in terms of ridiculousness and otheworldly crazy.
NB: My colleagues from the other building, aka "the medicated team" who disperse Valium and Lexapro, might espouse this vision. Remove some of that sarcasm.
There are beautiful shots of New York in "Lipstick jungle" - East Village, Thompkins Square Park, Bryant Park, Meatpacking District, etc. My plan of embracing Jersey is tanking because I keep on dwelling in the imagery and the sounds of the city, whether fictionalized or real. In my defense, it's raining, and the GRE book stimulates only this many neural pathways.
Speaking of stimulation, salsa on Friday was a segue into very interesting dreams, involving the male Dominican population of Washington Heights. That and the presidential debates afterwards met my needs for the day.
While we're on the subject of perseverating, I've been playing this song over and over for the last two days.
Lately, I've been refusing to act in age-appropriate fashion. I have dancing, Tim Gunn's "book of style", $10-dollar vocabulary words and Aquarius men on my mind. More silliness is happening at work in response to the administrative brutality we encounter. For instance, I've developed a successful strategy of wearing my funkiest accessories on the day of the meeting with our Evil Stepmother supervisor. Bags, rings and Custo Barcelona shirts have been diffusing the hostility in the room and facilitating a much lighter tone. I've also decided that all of us on a team need a superhero nickname (as in Jane "eyes of steel" Doe); three persons out of five already got one, and I am next. Meanwhile, "Mi amor" has been renamed into "Ex-Man" (get it, get it, "X-Men").
I can think of solitude, universal love and goodness when the thunderstorms hit later on tonight. Right now I'll go and work on my push-up technique 'cause all this sentimental crap is getting old.
NB: My colleagues from the other building, aka "the medicated team" who disperse Valium and Lexapro, might espouse this vision. Remove some of that sarcasm.
There are beautiful shots of New York in "Lipstick jungle" - East Village, Thompkins Square Park, Bryant Park, Meatpacking District, etc. My plan of embracing Jersey is tanking because I keep on dwelling in the imagery and the sounds of the city, whether fictionalized or real. In my defense, it's raining, and the GRE book stimulates only this many neural pathways.
Speaking of stimulation, salsa on Friday was a segue into very interesting dreams, involving the male Dominican population of Washington Heights. That and the presidential debates afterwards met my needs for the day.
While we're on the subject of perseverating, I've been playing this song over and over for the last two days.
Click to viewLately, I've been refusing to act in age-appropriate fashion. I have dancing, Tim Gunn's "book of style", $10-dollar vocabulary words and Aquarius men on my mind. More silliness is happening at work in response to the administrative brutality we encounter. For instance, I've developed a successful strategy of wearing my funkiest accessories on the day of the meeting with our Evil Stepmother supervisor. Bags, rings and Custo Barcelona shirts have been diffusing the hostility in the room and facilitating a much lighter tone. I've also decided that all of us on a team need a superhero nickname (as in Jane "eyes of steel" Doe); three persons out of five already got one, and I am next. Meanwhile, "Mi amor" has been renamed into "Ex-Man" (get it, get it, "X-Men").
I can think of solitude, universal love and goodness when the thunderstorms hit later on tonight. Right now I'll go and work on my push-up technique 'cause all this sentimental crap is getting old.