the breathing beast

Her soul was like a bucket, with holes everywhere. You could fill it with water, but the water wouldn't stay for long, so in a way, there was no bucket, because what is a bucket good for with holes everywhere? It is a ghost. It is a shell and a memory. Heavanly music fell through her soul that way. Nothing touched her. "How did I get here?"

In the mess of a dead body, a squirrel killed by a speeding car, in the blood, in the severed neck, the wet fur, the organs spilled out and broken, is the breathing beast, the living world, cruel and then kind, and cruel and kind at once, without meaning to be anything, without knowing us.

Its a waste of time to think about emotions when time is short, and there is everything to do. Get in a fight, kill someone. Fall in love, kill someone. Eat dinner, kill someone. Wake up in the morning, kill someone.

Who's gonna look out for you? I've done it before

I swooned, I gurgled, I drooled, and even then I felt that I could not express my happiness as I listened to Hilary York play at the Hole last night. If you know me, you know that I have a weakness for deep voices, and when the deep voice is attached to a tall, strong woman, dripping with sexiness and drinking whiskey and strumming her guitar, well I almost can't handle myself!

Go to her website click on Music, then listen to I Need Your Love. I'm going to go fan myself.

A visitor

All the people I have loved,
are always with me
in the cavities of my chest
Like drums behind a bloodred curtain
Like heartbeats pounding out
the stories of memory,
neverending.
It wasn't me! I object, who drank the wine
and continued to drink
until the musicians on the stage became angels,
and the people all around were devils,
It wasn't me alone,
almost running into parked cars and trees
on my bikeride home.
It wasn't my laughter, swearing, or tears,
It was a ghost,
a vistor who's lost,
a stranger when she drinks.

Death to cary118

I'm worried that everyone in my lab is not staying sane. I mean, not everyone, just one guy is kinda losing it. He's working on the worst piece of shit machine I've ever known. He is not alone, he is one in a series of miserable people who have come into contact with this machine, but he will be the last. When his series of experiments are done, the machine will be done. It's name is cary118, and it was built in the fifties and no other man or beast or piece of metal on the earth even resembles it. It's purpose is to measure the way that hemoglobins take up oxygen under different conditions. Currently it is being used to analyze chicken hemoglobin. Then it will be used for hummingbird hemoglobin. Then it will probably be put to rest. But what is the purpose of knowing about chicken and hummingbird blood? Is it really necessary? They say prayers in the name of Science and Truth, but who will say prayers for the man who slaves over the machine? Who will pray for his youth and sanity? I will.

Dear Lord of the Heavans and Earth, help my friend!

Homespun

When I was eating lunch today I noticed a bookshelf and so I went over and looked at the books, and I pulled an old blue one out of the pile that was called "Homespun - Along Friendly Road" by William Hiram Foulkes. It kept me captivated, and I read the first chapter which was called "The Friendly Road" and it described in detail, and also a little bit mystically what The Friendly Road is, and how "Homespun" is this great adventurer, or traveler, who travels the Friendly Road all over the world, wherever it goes. The rest of the book seems to be about Christian values or something.

"But, my neighbors, Homespun never walks alone. There is a Friend who keeps tryst with him and who has been walking by his side, an invisible Presence - a Voice inaudible at first, but intimate and persuasive, a Reality as real as the sunlight. Whether you let Homespun in or not, do not fail to open the door of your home, and it may be the door of your lonely heart, to let that invisible Friend come in to stay. He need never leave you, nor will he ever leave you, if only you open your heart's door wide. He is the divine Friend who can turn the bitter way of loneliness into a Friendly Road, and set your feet forever upon the way of everlasting light and life.

O Master of us all, be thou our Friend and let thy presence make our way of life a Friendly Road! Make and keep us friendly in deed, as well as in name. Give us both the grace and the joy of abiding friendship with others, for thy holy name's sake.

Those counters, so silly

Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog
Where no one notices the contrast of white on white
And in between the moon and you the angels get a better view
Of the crumbling difference between wrong and right
I walk in the air between the rain through myself and back again
Where? I don’t know
Maria says she’s dying through the door I hear her crying
Why? I don’t know


And the only part of that song I ever noticed before was the part that says "round heeeerreee" blah blah blah "round hereeeee!" blah blah blah.

Thats the counting crows. The rest of the song is deliciously written too.

It is a razor

My parents got married in my grandparents' living room, and my moms sisters sang the song "The Rose" by Bette Middler. They drank wine, even though it was forbidden by my dad's religion. And they married, even though it ment my dad could never go home again, and my mom would leave her way of life for a new religion. I guess that was love.

It's the heart, afraid of breaking,
that never learns to dance.
It's the dream, afraid of waking,
that never takes a chance.
It's the one who won't be taken,
who cannot seem to give.
And the soul, afraid of dyin',
that never learns to live.

The Rose