Our language is an extension of our habitual thought. I would imagine there could be some debate about reflector vs. director on this, but I'm inclined to feel that we are (in the very Buddhist sense of "Be") way before we do.
It's going around and around in my head, the only real competition up there being a constant admonishment to never again try to pop razor rash. Or bug bites.
You know that brings a point up; I'm breaking out so much I pop anything red on my face and that's a lot of color. I think the next time 11:11 comes around or I pass some wishing well (both of which came up this weekend) I'm gonna wish for Halle Berry's complexion instead of world peace or sex.
And that reminds me that I wanted to put out into the universe an invite to Parker Posey to have dinner with me. I'll buy. I would imagine you make more than me, but there's a gentleman in here dying to get out. I've been shy about this secret longing, but now that I found out that she's not taller than I am I thought I'd take a shot.
I think it important to note that the celebrity of Halle Berry reminded me to put out the invite, not the sex part. Sorry for the obsfucation, Ms. Posey. Hope that wasn't creepy as hell.
I hate my height. I've mentioned this a lot, but I really, really, really do. I will come back in another life to be good looking and tall. Really smart, too. Wicked fucking smart.
Last night flagged my first night in a bed in in ages. I think like four months. It clears the head out and also puts some nail in single. It's for real and I'm settling into new habits. I hope this doesn't sound like a ton of remorse. I'm not remorseful or nostalgic, I just hate change. I had some pretty and clear thoughts over the last few days and none of them seem to fit into language. If I could hint at them it might sound like these seemingly disorganized thoughts that somehow run together and need each other for warmth and breath.
Every time I seem wind swept I mean something I'm not brave enough or smart enough to say.
I keep hitting the perimeter of my intelligence. Constantly lately. My words can't find the right order and all the concepts and ideas I have won't dance. Even the abstracts that I try to string into songs that somehow allude to what I want but don't sound pretentious or random can't be found. The hints are dropping out the holes in the bottom. I want a song like a tight drum or a cask. Sometimes I make it, sometimes not.
tonight: not so much.