you're in my little red book

Dear you,

All I want is Otis Redding and you.


love,
Marge

p.s. And Sam Cooke and my bicycle.

p.p.s. and James Brown.

an inner round that flouts Augustinian precepts

notes on what happens after you answer an unanswerable question with a spoonful of nutella.
1. You read the plot synopsis of The Body Snatchers on imdb and then add it to your Netflix queue.
2. You watch some bits of a movie noticing that two of the characters are also in that TV show Northern Exposure.
3. You browse music on the internet.
4. And you wonder why you lost the talent for writing horrible poetry. Life would be more fulfilling if we hadn't lost that knack over here at Bjork Enterprises (a subsidiary of Willard Wonder Inc).
5. Realize that you really are disturbed by the double "ue" in queue and imagine what it would be like to have a nightmare about long queues and excessive vowels.

There was once a little girl who sat down in the middle of a shallow river.
"Why did you ask me to walk to the other side of the river?" she called out to the cat who sat on that opposite bank.
The cat never answered, either he couldn't hear her or he wasn't a talking cat. It was probably that he couldn't hear her because she had a very feeble voice which likely wasn't projecting over the babble of agua. The girl was frustrated that there was a communication breakdown and it had nothing to do with how tight Robert Plants pants were.
"Hello!" she yelled with all her weakly lunged force.
Still nothing, the cat just sat. Just sat.
And she sat in the middle of the shallow river. Just sat. With her hair that curled just so, just a little bit. Remember the hair because in a year she will chop a large chunk of it off, at the left crown and then they will take her to the beauty parlor (which she will subsequently remember for the rest of her life) so the beautician can try to fix this drastic action into some kind of girlish pixie cut.

I walked a lung out

This is not happening.
I just had two sleepless weeks and now I'm sick, who knew I could be full of my weight in snot, and now I'm not sleeping tonight.
And, oh great, here come the dead horses stalking up the path to the door. They look as gaunt and grey as ever, and still self-satisfied.
"Well, Marge, what did you expect? You should open up a ranch, we come back so often..."
"No, maybe I should take up shooting. If I put you all out, then I can be at peace."
"You know it doesn't work like that."
"Well, you and I now know that you're not visiting for the reasons we originally thought."
"True."
"What do we do about that?"
"Open up a ranch."

I conducted a science experiment. Here are my findings:
There were once a set of electrons. Lets say there were six billion of them. Some electrons were shaped like the letter M, some were shaped like the letter F. Every year electrons M paired up with electrons F and found their own neutron to circle stable-ly together. Usually when M's and F's were single, they were happy, but they felt like there was a little something missing. They felt it would be more natural to find a counterpart. There was one little F, though, (her friends described her as emotionally healthy so that must count for something) who always felt more stable when she was just an F. She sometimes found an intriguing M, but that's when she started to feel wibbled and wobbled and stretched. However wibbled this little F felt, she maintained firmly that maybe it didn't need to feel stable at the get go. Maybe it was only part of the truth that coupling up was a stable thing.

At this, one dead horse leans back and crosses his fore legs over his chest putting his hooves up on my nightstand. "You're that little F aren't you?"
"That's rather rude, don't you think?"
"I'm dead, what do you think I care about politeness?"
"Well, I'm not F. I'm not that little letter F, electron F. Don't be-"
"-YOU really are going to have to build that ranch because nothing is going to stay stable."
At this, one of the other dead horses snorted, "Except for us, HA! Get it? We're going to stay stabled!"
There were some subsequent snorts, winnies, neighs, and demands for hay. Horse humor is rather tiring, just not tiring enough, apparently. Tomorrow I'm looking for a travel agency that will book trips for a few ghastly/ghostly horses.

I do my tae-bo to ambiance tunes. highly ineffective.

[middle of the woods]

[Knock, knock, knock]
[rickety wooden door opens. but silently]

"Yeesss?" The Sandyman peered out of crow's feet eyes.
"Mr. Sandman?" I said.
"Yeesss?"
"I'm tired," I said.
"Yeesss?"
"But I'm not falling asleep again. And I'm having horrendous dreams again."
"Hmmm..."

[He's got a puckered soft face of flappy old skin]

"How can I fall asleep?"

[He blinks]



[He shuts the door]

enough of being accessible and making sense...

...I will say what I want to say, though it mean nothing to you.
Read Hans Christian Andersen's "Galoshes of Fortune" here.

Dear Care,

Prey, did you perchance let those galoshes of fortune slip two grey years ago? Because I perchance slipped them on, as I had always wished to be a povertous poet dallying about on a hilltop and there one tired January morning these flittery flits of decorative abstruse sentences filled my brain, poured forth from my pen and sometimes even escaped my mouth.
I basked in this glow of lights and cotton candy clouds and religious sparrows and individual grass blades and romantacized, symbolic people.
Then one year ago I wished to be coupled to un garçon. The poetry flitted out, as the dear galoshes only fill one wish at a time. It was as Hans had said, even as this final wish had come true, I was torn, conflicted, pained and deeply, heartfeltedly entrenched. Oh what a mire I had thrown myself into! Well, my wish was not as I had thought it would be, though I can't agree that I would've been better off without wishing, staying contented is sometimes to be cold and settled. Quickly thereafter receiving this last request of my heart, the boots were slipped off of me, perhaps you took them back, dear Care. I felt the fortune drain out through the tips of my toes following closely after those boots. And as if it had never begun, my imagined couple ended with only a joking, "I can't take you anywhere," for closure.

Well boots, I dearly miss my poetry. The maid's token of fortune merely had awakened and enhanced my thirst for the poetics and quickly after that never-begun-ending and sometime during the following existensial crisis the daisical way of playing around with words came back to me.
Only to die off again.
And now I find myself in a coupled seat without those boots and I wish slightly I felt given to writing verse about these happenings.

Alas, I am silent. {En d'autres termes, je suis muette}

However, I am actually very happy without the moon-eyed sensations clouding all my senses. Do you want to know what's more delightful than wishes? Knowing you make someone very happy when you laugh at their jokes, listen to what they say, spend an evening with them, when you can argue back, and especially when you kiss them.

Happily yours
Love,
Marge

whispering after jokes and weeping willows and your odd timing

I hate when I don't take a sleeping pill and then three in the morning rolls around and I'm staring at the ceiling.
I've been trying to ignore dead horses all night. I try to tell the horses to go away, they're dead, I don't like beating dead horses. They insist they're only mostly dead, just in need of some CPR. I tell them it's uncouth and unthinkable to give a horse CPR.Nothing doing.
-We're only dead, they tell me, if you don't take any action.
-Well, you will always be dead, I say, because all courses of action pertaining to you dead horses sound like raving lunacy.
-In that case, you won't sleep tonight, they say as they waltz around the room. Changing into different spectral shapes, acting out Shakespeare, Milton, and my life.
After the first hour of this I read 'The Hiding Place' for two hours. I may love books, but I love my sleep better.
I tried sleeping for another hour after that. And I've tried silently shaking my fists at the dead horses while mouthing, "I don't believe in you, you are dead. Dead, dead, dead. There's more of gravy than of grave about you."
-Ha, ha! You're a funny one, they say. You're a funny clever little one and that's why we've come to stay.
-Oh no, don't do that! Send in the sheep, I beg of you. I'll count them one by one. I'll count every mutty hair on their backs. Only please, go away. I'll drink tea! I'll drink tea, I swear I will! Warm milk!
-If you didn't want to have this argument, says one dead horse, you should have taken that sleeping pill, but now it's too late.
-Can't we have this discussion in the daytime, like rational people? I ask.
-No. Says another dead horse, You should never go to bed angry.

I never did like horses.