Coffee at midnight, hopefully this is the last time I'll be doing that for a while.
It's funny how things can change in an instant, like the direction of the wind - is that cliche? but that's how I see it, possibly feel it.
I'm holding on to the old direction in the way I hold on to nostalgia rather than an actual person.
Differences are differences, I've always been good at not missing people, so I find myself still grasping something that isn't the person so much, but the feeling of that person that occured within me for such an incredibly short amount of time.
I feel sad, in a way, about it. Also sort of annoyed. I know what's good for me! So I'd allow my mind to allow me to move on.
But, it would have been nice if the wind didn't change direction.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
That Will Run Next Year
I sit here and ache in a chair made out of wasted money, rolling up my sleeves and rocking forward and backward to the shocks of caffiene. A break from silence with Smog.
Two exams down, two to go.
I am surrounded by papers with words I've stared at for hours, though my mind has mostly been elsewhere. I decided to take a break - it's dinner-time after all, and since it's actually slushing outside..I'll wait it out before heaading home. May take all night.
Whether or not there is any type of God, I'm not supposed to say and today I don't really care. God is a word and the argument ends there
Chewing gum, chewing tapping chewing swallowing sipping staring sighing
Outside there are green fields and people walking covered running
There's a waterfalling gutter behind me, singing out spring time
Timely waving across the concrete
Like the sound waves
Between you and me
While we say
'Thinking of the Future'
Two exams down, two to go.
I am surrounded by papers with words I've stared at for hours, though my mind has mostly been elsewhere. I decided to take a break - it's dinner-time after all, and since it's actually slushing outside..I'll wait it out before heaading home. May take all night.
Whether or not there is any type of God, I'm not supposed to say and today I don't really care. God is a word and the argument ends there
Chewing gum, chewing tapping chewing swallowing sipping staring sighing
Outside there are green fields and people walking covered running
There's a waterfalling gutter behind me, singing out spring time
Timely waving across the concrete
Like the sound waves
Between you and me
While we say
'Thinking of the Future'
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Weather in San Francisco by Richard Brautigan
It was a cloudy afternoon with an Italian butcher selling a pound of meat to a very old woman, but who knows what such an old woman could possibly use a pound of meat for?
She was too old for that much meat. Perhaps she used it for a bee hive and she had five hundred golden bees at home waiting for their meat, their bodies stuffed with honey.
"What kind of meat would you like today?" the butcher said. "We have some good hamburger. It's lean."
"I don't know," she said. "Hamburger is something else."
"Yeah, it's lean. I ground it myself. I put a lot of lean meat in it."
"Hamburger doesn't sound right," she said.
"Yeah," the butcher said. "It's a good day for hamburger. Look outside. It's cloudy. Some of those clouds have rain in them. I'd get the hamburger," he said.
"No," she said. "I don't want any hamburger, and I don't think it's going to rain. I think the sun is going to come out, and it will be a beautiful day, and I want a pound of liver."
The butcher was stunned. He did not like to sell liver to old ladies. There was something about it that made him very nervous. He didn't want to talk to her any more.
He reluctantly sliced a pound of liver off a huge red chunk and wrapped it up in white paper and put it into a brown bag. It was a very unpleasant experience for him.
He took her money, gave her the change, and went back to the poultry section to try and get a hold of his nerves.
By using her bones like the sails of a ship, the old woman passed outside into the street. She carried the liver as if it were a victory to the bottom of a very steep hill.
She climbed the hill and being very old, it was hard on her. She grew tired and had to stop and rest many times before she reached the top.
At the top of the hill was the old woman's house: a tall San Francisco house with bay windows that reflected a cloudy day.
She opened her purse which was like a small autumn field and near the fallen branches of an old apple tree, she found her key.
Then she opened the door. It was a dear and trusted friend. She nodded at the door and went into the house and walked down a long hall into a room that was filled with bees.
There were bees everywhere in the room. Bees on the chairs. Bees on the photograph of her dead parents. Bees on the curtains. Bees on the ancient radio that once listened to the 1930s. Bees on her comb and brush.
The bees came to her and gathered about her lovingly while she unwrapped the liver and placed it upon a cloudy silver platter that soon changed into a sunny day.
She was too old for that much meat. Perhaps she used it for a bee hive and she had five hundred golden bees at home waiting for their meat, their bodies stuffed with honey.
"What kind of meat would you like today?" the butcher said. "We have some good hamburger. It's lean."
"I don't know," she said. "Hamburger is something else."
"Yeah, it's lean. I ground it myself. I put a lot of lean meat in it."
"Hamburger doesn't sound right," she said.
"Yeah," the butcher said. "It's a good day for hamburger. Look outside. It's cloudy. Some of those clouds have rain in them. I'd get the hamburger," he said.
"No," she said. "I don't want any hamburger, and I don't think it's going to rain. I think the sun is going to come out, and it will be a beautiful day, and I want a pound of liver."
The butcher was stunned. He did not like to sell liver to old ladies. There was something about it that made him very nervous. He didn't want to talk to her any more.
He reluctantly sliced a pound of liver off a huge red chunk and wrapped it up in white paper and put it into a brown bag. It was a very unpleasant experience for him.
He took her money, gave her the change, and went back to the poultry section to try and get a hold of his nerves.
By using her bones like the sails of a ship, the old woman passed outside into the street. She carried the liver as if it were a victory to the bottom of a very steep hill.
She climbed the hill and being very old, it was hard on her. She grew tired and had to stop and rest many times before she reached the top.
At the top of the hill was the old woman's house: a tall San Francisco house with bay windows that reflected a cloudy day.
She opened her purse which was like a small autumn field and near the fallen branches of an old apple tree, she found her key.
Then she opened the door. It was a dear and trusted friend. She nodded at the door and went into the house and walked down a long hall into a room that was filled with bees.
There were bees everywhere in the room. Bees on the chairs. Bees on the photograph of her dead parents. Bees on the curtains. Bees on the ancient radio that once listened to the 1930s. Bees on her comb and brush.
The bees came to her and gathered about her lovingly while she unwrapped the liver and placed it upon a cloudy silver platter that soon changed into a sunny day.
Reading...
From the comment section of Canada! How Does It Work?
"Canadians are less patriotic than Americans are, and sometimes I think that's a good thing and other times I think it leads to less investment in the political process of the country. By way of illustration, I read an article recently about a Canadian who purchased an old building somewhere in the states (Delaware? my memory is sketchy). Later, it was discovered that the building had been used as a barracks in the War of 1812. Local sentiment rejected foreign ownership of this building, and the Canadian was forced to sell it. Meanwhile, they recently discovered the remains of our Second Parliament under a gas station somewhere in Toronto, and the local consensus was to just leave it there and maybe excavate it some other time."
EXACTLY!!!!
"Canadians are less patriotic than Americans are, and sometimes I think that's a good thing and other times I think it leads to less investment in the political process of the country. By way of illustration, I read an article recently about a Canadian who purchased an old building somewhere in the states (Delaware? my memory is sketchy). Later, it was discovered that the building had been used as a barracks in the War of 1812. Local sentiment rejected foreign ownership of this building, and the Canadian was forced to sell it. Meanwhile, they recently discovered the remains of our Second Parliament under a gas station somewhere in Toronto, and the local consensus was to just leave it there and maybe excavate it some other time."
EXACTLY!!!!
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