I am my mother's daughter: part "last night I learned about..."

Sometimes my day starts at 1:00 am, just because I wake up and decide to make bread. And the next thing I know it's 7:00 a.m. and I can do yoga with my roommate and run people to school (in my mom van) and run errands (in my mom van) and then settle in for work (not in my mom van).

This happens periodically–the odd hours of wakefulness–and like my mother before me I spend these hours delighting in the time I have alone in the quiet to get things done: cook, clean, paint, watch a movie, read, grocery shop, watch the sun rise, make sure every sleepy child has breakfast before they leave the house.

Sometimes in my growing-up years when I lived under my parents roof, my mother would tell me about all of the things she learned in the night from documentaries she'd watched. "Trubuchets! They're like catapults but instead of swinging like this (here you imagine my mother diagramming with her arms), they swing like this." She now has a model trebuchet with which to shoot mini marshmallows and other tiny things.


Yes, I treasure these times.

Today I got a poem in the mail from lovely old-lady-in-training-M.M. She's my Poem Friend who's traveling the nation staying with nuns and general orthopedic-shoe-wearers, spreading the information of poetry. Sometimes she finds a select piece to share with me. This one took out my breath. Ask person to person-like and I'll tell you more about it–but eh, you know, sometimes you don't share poems. Or in some mediums you don't share poems. They're meant to be scattered in piles on wood floors and sorted through while everyone sits searching through them, reading them silently or out loud, sharing thoughts or looks or life stories. Oh Heaven, I'm planning you out already. I hope you can pardon that, Heaven.

There are so many letters I'd like to write to you. Oh gee.

aunt acid's harry rag

There was an upswing in ookiness and that up jumped the boogy. The boogy man'd the station with the hips' invaduation. Aiyaiyai, it will all be over tonight, right? And then I'll on se casse myself from this campus. That, if you haven't noticed, is my favorite thing I've ever learned to say.

on se casse
on se casse
on se casse

Voila la la la la.

Vous voyez, le problème is that who wants to listen to guillaume du fay's stinking polyphonic masses when you could be listening to the davies sing their Kinks-y hits? I know, since when did I turn up my nose at ancient music history? I'm usually the champion of studying the obscure and outdated. I'm rolling over in my grave. Butsa whateva, whateva, whateva eva.

Also, can we make note here that to the untrained observer there is no difference in the phoneme of the "oi" of french words like voila and the "oy" in voyez, BUT there is a HUGE difference and even though I'll never have success with my ridiculous obsession over tiny details comme ça I can rest self-satisfied.

I know Mom, I'm getting pompous. Apparently lack of sleep makes me spout gibberish, become pompous, and french.

la la la la la

c'est tout !

love,
M

P.S. I guess you hate all this dribble laying before your eyes but I was just getting so tired of waxing profound. I'ma go James Joyce on ya'll. HA!


ok, here's the translations:
on se casse: LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!!!!!
vous voyez: you see
comme ça: like that
c'est tout: th-th-th-that's all folks

canteenuh

Was it oil paint or wool felt that set the trees to life tonight? They were not frescoed nor co-ed, but fully three dimensional and diverging all their plains. planes. playns.

I wish to make something beautiful. I wish to be a modern artist, I wish to be a little poet, I wish to be a happy musician, I wish to paint your clothes to appear in Super 8 [mm] formatly rich colors.

La, la, la, let's quit wishing. Let's become construction workers and drink out of thermoses. I'm not that strong now, but I imagine after a few months I could keep up a little better with all of the other construction workers. It might not be the most ideal job in some ways, I sunburn very easily, but it would be free of three to four minute French persuasive presentations. I wouldn't feel a stroke of pretention unless people kept asking me how to spell things. I kind of like manual labor. O to work all day long with a hammer at my hip then to trudge home to some tea as I fight the pleasant sensation of impending sleep long enough to brush my teeth and to read a half a page of a clever book and then surrender to heavy sleep which is not beknotted by twisted subconscious dreamings.

How perfecto that'd be.

¡viva!