thoughts that everybody thinks.

for most of my life i was convinced that i had all these bizarre thoughts in my head that i was never going to voice because no one would really understand them. does the couch think i'm the one that's not alive? what if god replaced my feet with someone else's feet? etc. and some more unexplainable ones that i won't list because it's hard to put them to words. the point is that i think i was wrong about this and that people really do think retarded shit like that, they just never talk about it. which brings me to the point of this post: human thought processes and emotions are not what we think they are, and you are not different! like the concept of "feminine," which is more than a stereotype. it the way nearly everyone, man or woman, views half of the human race. i really don't beleive that some women are feminine and some aren't--obviously, by the meaning of a word, it incorporates the qualities of all women. strong is feminine. opinionated is feminine. sincere is feminine.

i'm rambling. thesis: we as a species are not honest with eachother about things that are different or perhaps uncomfortable which leads us to have very skewed perceptions of what it means to be a human being.

i love mirth

with a love that comes from me. like possibility, wonder, big dogs, and chick singers.

i love sand

with a love that comes from my feet. like fresh cut grass, cold water, warm socks, and the feet of someone i like.

i love squalor

with a love that comes from my mind. like mushrooms, physics, great books, and little puzzles.

oh and i love dinosaurs, rar.

appreciating winona

aka why-the-fuck-are-you-so-awesomely-edgey-and-perfectly-beautiful-and-ps-what-does-your-tattoo-mean,-girl?

i mean not to be overly dramatic but how can any woman be straight while winona ryder is in the world? that said, she needs a dyke spike.

today i thought that nelson mandela died

but, so, he didn't. but it made me think about how people would view him differently if he did, so i started thinking about how i never knew or was able to speak to any of the obscure figures i have been taught to respect. never talked to gandhi, was never able to size him up the way I size up the more little, more tangeable people of my real life. if he was ever a person with flaws all over his face and his hands, as i suspect he must have been, as i see we all become, he is that no longer. he, like so many others, has slipped away leaving the ability for others to judge them behind. i mean even in the movie his sexism was hailed as true love. who has done this while living? and why is it that men and women entangled in the given niceties of american culture, one laced with dependency on judgement, respect themselves for respecting the dead while tearing down the living in order to get on top? there is no top. but as america climbs more and more diagonally nowhere, our blindness has caused us to believe we are getting closer to one. ehh, maybe. that war can be morally superior to peace. that to level out a human being like a colored plastic player on a board will make them easier to defeat. that humans must gain dignity, instead of being handed it. as long as we are still all in this world together, we are unable or unwilling to forgive and bend. as soon as that is no longer the case, our walls of separation fall. i will not provide anomaly for this. i think that you either see it or you do not.

rip, nobody.

pound had to have interviewed some girl to write it

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.
Great minds have sought you - lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
No. You preferred it to the usual thing:One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
One average mind - with one thought less, each year.
Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
Hours, where something might have floated up.And now you pay one.
Yes, you richly pay.
You are a person of some interest, one comes to youAnd takes strange gain away:
Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two,
Pregnant with mandrakes,
or with something elseThat might prove useful and yet never proves,
That never fits a corner or shows use, Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays,
These are your riches, your great store;
and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,
Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
No! there is nothing!
In the whole and all,Nothing that's quite your own.
Yet this is you.


and i thought i should post it if i was gonna reference it in my title. is there nothing in the world that is quite our own when our bodies are borrrowed property and our minds have been flattened out to open books? who the hell knows.

why we are not men and women

the cop outside is sucking feverishly on a cigarette (ette. feminine). he waits between the wall and the windowpane in my line of vision while i ask myself what the purpose is in standing up straight, lining my back against the counter to watch him. as i watch i desire revenge for something he never did. he lifts his head, exposing his sharp jaw line like another weapon in his holster. his gun was more attractive.

the couple next to me are holding hands, fingers interlaced, every other one pastel pink, every other one plain. she could be holding her hands up to her eyes and peeking out through the openings to look at me, but she's not. she is chewing on something, his mouth is still. i want to cut all of her hair off, all the way back to her eyes. then i want to look in them.

there is a woman wearing sweat pants cut at the knees pacing towards, the edges of her body wobbly and strange. she smells like fish and pot, and she stumbles when she gets close, muttering a confused apology. she is one of my least favorites.