february2011mEp

i have come all the way here.
a defiant teenager; a reluctant young adult; a determined young woman; a motivated thirty-somthing, a mother, middle age, and now this.
i don't fight it, anyone, anything. i don't even think about much anymore - my energy is open for hers.
you could say i'm sliding through it.
watching youth is fascinating and fun; praising reluctant young adults makes me feel proud; determined young woman give hope; mothers joy, and everyone else
just seems like another kid walking down the hallway.

more awake in the morning; i wanted to write about unconditional love;
the problem is, apparently it's rare.

what's a meeting culture and what does it stem from?

perhaps in a financial world, one must never show up unannounced for fear of numbers reprisals?
oddly, this is not a financial company
oddly, it is driven like one.
i'm not here to bash it, but my way of working is less CYA and much more efficient.
that's just the way one feels when one is PMSing.

in the middle of music - and my life - music speaks to me like never before
while tooth brushing yesterday, i uncovered the poignant message that Yentl brings me still,
thirty-ish years later...

and that would be that here is a woman, longing for a logical world, yet using an artistic method to pursue it.

that would be all i would convert this place to: ultimately, to remain logical and driven by physics (since we cannot change that)
yet, driven with primarily creative forces, allowing our daily lives to be imbued with colours, whimsy, music, and chance.
wake up in the morning, drink some stiff espresso, write some creative thoughts, listen to inspiring music, then hop in a leather-bound passat turbo
and wisk yourself off to your tacky, uninspiring, meeting-driven world where you are an overpaid ignored robot.

ok, i'd change some bits about the last part.

a story for feb 17

i'm probably hanging around with people online who are way too young for me.

i'm warmed up now
morning thoughts haven't changed

so what's my original thought for today

http://www.grammy.com/videos/53rd-annual-grammy-awards-album-of-the-year

maybe i don't have one.

i spend most of my time thinking about people i don't understand.
is that useful?

people with stormy opinions like myself spend more time in 'analyze and debate' mode. so many people are satisfied with 'simple pleasures' mode, living through life - perhaps happy to make it through at all - instead of dissecting the world around us; why is US foreign policy US foreign policy? what is US foreign policy anyways and how does it affect the world? and why are there so many things about babies that the medical community is divided on? is it really possible to have a 'culture' of letting people drive willy nilly and kill each other on the roads? i've been to milan, driving on sidewalks is part of their culture, but i suppose it hasn't killed many people... does the American Dream exist? i'll argue that it does, but that doesn't mean i want it. it's about disposable income, that's all. often that's enough, especially to the people who spend alot of time in 'simple pleasures' mode. i envy them at 10PM when my brain is on overdrive and toots is going to wake up hungry at 12.

what makes what someone else writes attractive?

they're all parcelled, captured; timeless.
products of a mind, sculpted really, and digested for someone else, in another state of mind, and at another place in time.
those are the best blogs.

i guess i'm trying to capture a moment in time;
i mean, in the mEp, my fleeting thoughts;
the ones you have during a day
the ones that you cannot determine
the ones that fingers can grasp
and brains can wrap themselves around

it's a whiny heater
reverbarating over the keyboard clicks
but the pepites of brown sugar in my coffee come from the very south of france
while egyptians protest for a loaf of bread, locally baked.

i came here first today, like in the old days,
do not pass email, do not pass fb,
do not go to jail.

and once again i ask:
how long is a thought?
and why is a page never long enough to capture it.

i hear pitter-patter, much too early, much too early.
it's saturday.
poots is up early.

dreamt i drank a capuccino.
odd.

for surely we can't be exactly who we want to be;
birth settled that long ago.

catching up on catching up

i'll try to sit long enough

what are the motions, second bubbas and bad friends (not mine)
tax bills that don't scare me
it's winter rocking us in boots
it's never enough nabob
dentists and ordinary things
detachments and reattachments
friends in far places couch and slouch i'm guessing
i'm quoting myself
and loving it

it's large piles of snow, late for school
it's brownies and anticipation
what's the difference between south and north, only the heat
it's faces on facebook;
it's an extra two inches
it's little poots resisting temptations
and finally getting up on time.

OH suzanne! i need to write this down. headache and all.

drilling caffeine through a dizzy brain
pieces of thoughts of who are we
and who we are in that puzzle of friends:
we paint our own tapestry of befriending
always on the outside looking in
(jewel says and so do i)
city people do that, i am city people
observant, in my holey brain; perfect but for my perfections;
dancing with myself; i choose to lose;
baring my naked self to a complete stranger;
is comforting to me in a non judgemental way
if only the world took lessons from her
(is there an opposite of ilk?)
we could all drink each other
"and still be on our feet."
"and still be on our feet."

no choice but for austrailian wine
the bar might be higher now.