Something I Wrote

Leading the way to the porch ground, across the street is the entrance to the cemetery, next to that is a nursing home and next to that is a nursing school and across the street from that is a nursery. A factory on the otherside of town makes baby formula and they often truck in gallons of freeze-dried milk to make their nutrient rich and specialized fluid for infants who cannot, will not, or should not drink the mother’s milk.

In theory, the extraction and subsequent collation of proteins and viral prohibitors are necessary when we consider that in the advent of a nuclear or apocolyptic conclusion to our living habits all natural means of nutrient production will be nullified. Soon, we may need to revert to infantilism when it comes to the burdening demand of the food supply. There will need to be a system of compact, energy rich, if not satisfying versions of food-stuffs and likely this will some in the form of a beverage, a smoothie, a shake, or a “milk” substitute to solid foods.

Today’s Playlist

Broadcast: Ha Ha Sound
The Sundays: Reading, Writing & Arithmetic
Hum: Downward Is Heavenward

Yesterday’s Playlist

Death Cab For Cutie: Plans
Shiro Sagisu: His And Her Circumstances (soundtrack)
Juliana Hatfield: In Exile Deo

Something I wrote

A green and pink lotus flower, retinal spine touching the muck and mire. What the hell is mire anyway? An area of wet, soggy, muddy ground; a bog. Deep slimy soil or mud. [Thank you American Heritage Dictionary Fourth Edition and dictionary.com]

I’ve been selling my silence to the wrong people. Someone once told me how calm I appear and I knew I was doing something right, like a ninja as was said before, like a superstore clerk wearing glasses and slicked hair – hiding the secret of the burning children in the grocery store cellar.

A van came through the town on a cold and frost covered December morning. In the window of the second-hand shop, opaque and crystallized, a mannequin lady held out her hand showing a piece of plastic jewelry, wearing a rabbit-fur hat, a mini-two piece business suit and holding a plastic purse with brass knobs. Downtown was as empty as The Rapture would promise, not a soul dared walk or even wake up on a morning as cold as this. The sun was out, pestering the storefronts and asking them why they had not yet opened their doors. The van parked in front of the bank, turned off the engine and mingled with the silence of the surrounding brick faced buildings. My blue shadow and my orange light. Inside the van were two people. They were two people who had just met the night before.

Today's Playlist

The Cure: Bloodflowers
Depeche Mode: Playing The Angel
Neko Case: Fox Confessor Brings The Flood

Find your Celestial Choir

Ambien Sun

As the warm weather approaches and the sun feels less inhibited to show a little skin I need to be weary of my sun-induced narcolepsy. The brightness (and where I work and go to school there is little shade, shadow, relief from this) always develops this terrible need and instinct to go to sleep. What I need is a good pair of sexy, hot sunglasses. Otherwise I’ll be spending my summer thinking I have my bio-rhythms out of sync, my memory in the recycling bin, and a tumor wrapping itself around my cerebral cortex.

Lord have some mercy. I shouldn’t be living in California.

Something I wrote today

You’re telling me that breakfast has little meaning for you. I have now given up; rather resigned my feelings for seeing you reach a finish line. There is no finish line. Following the length of road, a fallen sign on a patch of grass says that a town used to reside here, along the way a secret postponed, a rest-stop mishap, a torn piece of clothing, a broken bottle of cologne.

Today’s Playlist

Kristin Hersh: Sky Motel
Massive Attack: Collected
Jenny Lewis with The Watson Twins: Rabbit Fur Coat
Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Show Your Bones
Curve: Come Clean