Words. A half-clenched handful of needle-thin words to tremble and twine and thread nothingness. Epizeuxis epizeuxis epizeuxis (just for good measure ( Read more... )

I know how pathetic this all is and I know how pathetic it is to know you're pathetic and the congealed pathetic-ness of that which is entirely unattractive and weak, but if I do not trot this horrible tumor out I'm afraid of what will happen, so please, bear with me. I promise I'll write something shiny and agreeable soon ( Read more... )

I'm only capable of self-pity when I'm not aware that I'm doing it. Shrinking for the girth of all the possibilites before me is self-pitying under the mask of practicality. Shrinking at my capacity to honestly love again is self-pitying, too.

There it is, and now to move beyond it.

There's an actual website that leads one to discover their cat's particular sense of humor. Not to brag but I knew they had them all along; one wrecked my sleep last night doing a satirical attack on hairballs ( Read more... )

For some reason I woke up this morning imagining the first Thanksgiving Day parade being a fiddle-led caravan of mice that scurry over the floorboards while bearing upon their backs tempera-painted panels of St. George and King James before the awestruck, hungry eyes of Pilgrim children. Then I imagined how low their ratings must have been.

I'm a highly self-conscious person. Obsessively so. If I am actively receiving language the words are either being imprinted in the air in front of me (thank you you-know-who-you-are for that development) or the rhythmic/melodic sweep of the voice is being followed internally or the syllabic roundness is pinging over points of articulation across ( Read more... )

I'm spending the day in bed with Oscar Wilde and Emily Bronte. After everything I've decided to take one of those very grown up days-for-yourself (I can't get out of bed anyway so I might as well seize the opportunity). Universe, please be waiting for me on the other side of tomorrow ( Read more... )

The good news is that chest pain, coughing up blood and shortness of breath don't all point to a single trauma. I'm fine and all I just feel like my body has been strapped to a weather-vane in the middle of a tornado. "And there's suddenly so much music to write," said the flustered romantic acutely aware of his own mortality ( Read more... )

Is it just me or does this caldera look like Bob Dylan?

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Just listen to that voice!! I love the scratch in it.. I've always felt that the "imperfections" necessary in making a tone are half of what make it beautiful--the 'ping' as a finger makes contact with a classical guitar string or the scrape of a violin bow (my absolute favorite records of Violin Suites are all recorded up close, miked very ( Read more... )