The dangers of being in class while in a broken relationship

Songs start to buzz out the lovely monotone of the professor, and voila!  A poem made out of a stew of song lyrics that seemingly come out of nowhere.  And the songs keep playing in the background, making the professor less and less interesting, no matter what he's talking about.

I’m the hero of this story I don’t need to be saved.

And my loneliness ain’t killing me no more,

Because I’m stronger than yesterday

And feelin groovy.

I don’t want somebody to try and find me

I’ve been here before and I’m locking the door

And I will survive.

And this long line of cars will never have an end, but

Because the sun is high, it blows my mind

So I’ll move along just to make it through

You’re just another brick in the wall

And I stand alone, but

I get by with a little help from my friends

A killer queen, with dynamite and a laser beam

Too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts

And that that don’t kill me will only make me stronger

And that’s alright by me.

And yes.  Some are ambiguous lines, occurring in many songs rather than one; that makes them that much stronger. Pillars, if you will.

Kind of like friends.  My Beatles are a phone call or tea date away, and we'll harmonize together in incredible ways.  Oh, I get high with a little help from my friends, but not in the way you think.

We'll take the high road and coast, laughing at the slow road below while the sun and wind whips our brightly dyed hair around.

Which reminds me.  I've got to get on this hair dye thing.

Stationery

I have an intense love for stationery.
It's what inspires me to write, even when there's nothing important to say.
Soft parchment with a creamy color begs for a maroon fountain pen that strips words of structure and builds them back up;
psit sound ment arch sild again, lovingly venning down the page in spires and ioneries...
a computer leaves so much to be desired; there's a slowness to writing that note-taking and quick-thinking strip from the art and simplify into typing.
and thus it is that I choose the most antiquated-looking of backgrounds for my blog, as it reminds me of stationery.
If you ever want to an anonymous love-gift for me, please find me hand-made paper and a high-quality fountain pen and set me up with a larger Bibliophile's Dictionary than I already have.  I know one exists out there.  And a book of fonts.  Beautiful and edgy fonts.
Oh, and get me a tree book.  Seriously.  Trees are awesome.

Blog, it's been a while

Train and the Traveling Wilburys and Pink Floyd and Tom Petty and Red Hot Chili Peppers-- you remind me of my brother on a summer day, and of the puffy clouds that I want to be out chasing.

That's where I've been, poor Blog, instead of tending to you like a cute little zen garden.  I was chasing clouds, for all I thought they could bring me happiness.  Instead of ground, where I felt too heavy and down, I wanted to find my dreams somewhere.  I thought they were floating in the clouds.

Apparently not; things haven't worked out the way I thought they would.

It's easy to grab on to a lot of clouds--they're practically made of nothing.  After one, I was still hungry; I had so much space in my spiritual stomach to fill, that I kept grabbing onto more, and more, and more...

And I was never full.  In fact, I kept looking back at the ground, envying those who were so full of light and substance, and wanting to return to that.  But once you're in the clouds, it's next to impossible to get yourself back down.

I was looking for an anchor to climb back down.

So I grabbed the hands of my friends, found the smooth warm comfort of my bed and my toes in the grass, and remembered pleasure.  The solid things in life that make the world go 'round, the warm coffee shops with classical music and jasmine teas.  The candle on my desk as a gentle breeze rustles the bella palm leaves next to my computer, the soft caress of cloth on skin...

So here I am again, back on the ground, but still a little lost.  Those clouds, even though I know the danger, still call softly to me, missing my carefree companionship.  And here on the ground, I remember why I wanted to leave it in the first place--I'm heavy again, bogged down with wants and desires and missings and loves.

It's all a balance, I think.

So I'm going to a percussion show tomorrow, on a whim, catching a cloud on its way up from the earth before it gets too high.  Life is a matter of luck and chance, and if I catch these opportunities as they float under my nose, I might just find that the ground can be lightness too.