(no subject)
this is the world we live in: people write books specifically for me. to be exact, tom robbins. to be even more exacter, the exactness of planting seeds with the tip of a pencil, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. it would be more likely for the hilton sisters to write me out their wills than it would be for tom robbins to stop writing books espescially for me., and i say this because the hilton sisters and i are family friends with benifits. the time will come when it's right for tom robbins to not only be thanked by me but also for him to write me into his will as well, but for now i am just going to soak up his words as written to me, by him, under order of the divine.
thank god, (well, thank Creation really; I envision God as somewhat of a loaf; a gas station attendant glory hawk) that this is the world to which we owe our allegiance*
now for a sentence or two about the belly button:
It is not a belly button. (The umbilicus serves, then withdraws, leaving but a single footprint where it stood: the navel, wrinkled and cupped, whorled and domed, blind and winking, bald and tufted, sweaty and powdered, kissed and bitten, waxed and fuzzy, bejeweled and ignored; reflecteing as graphically as breasts, seeds or fetishes the omnipotent fertility in which Nature dangles her muddy feet, the navel looks in like a plugged keyhole on the center of our being, it is true, but O navel, though we salute your motionless maternity and the dreams that have got tangled in your lint, you are only a scar, after all; you are not it)."-Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, T. Robbins
*please disregard all ill-repute that the world has gathered previous to my journal entry
thank god, (well, thank Creation really; I envision God as somewhat of a loaf; a gas station attendant glory hawk) that this is the world to which we owe our allegiance*
now for a sentence or two about the belly button:
It is not a belly button. (The umbilicus serves, then withdraws, leaving but a single footprint where it stood: the navel, wrinkled and cupped, whorled and domed, blind and winking, bald and tufted, sweaty and powdered, kissed and bitten, waxed and fuzzy, bejeweled and ignored; reflecteing as graphically as breasts, seeds or fetishes the omnipotent fertility in which Nature dangles her muddy feet, the navel looks in like a plugged keyhole on the center of our being, it is true, but O navel, though we salute your motionless maternity and the dreams that have got tangled in your lint, you are only a scar, after all; you are not it)."-Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, T. Robbins
*please disregard all ill-repute that the world has gathered previous to my journal entry