…missing my old lit life…

(meme ganked from a 6-degrees-removed stranger i’m not leaving a trail by naming)

“You name three fictional characters. I have to pick one to push off a cliff, one to marry, and one to shag. (no celebrity names since celebrities aren’t fictional… for the most part)”

& y’all the way this works is you’re s’posed to do it too. do not let the thick chapters i have to present on today & the half-a thick book due at 2 that i haven’t even opened yet (but, look, i can be nerdy enough to reference the title & thus at least give the impression of being on the ball) be all i get to think & do today!

nickelheist

http://www.usmint.gov/kids/index.cfm?fileContents=coinNews/newNickel.cfm

http://www.questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=303

unordered collection

this is for metalmonkey, for whom the only e-mail i currently have is bouncing at me.

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this doctor (the yet-unqualified dr. moi–and i’ll never be qualified in that… well… i have been known to insist that comics are rhetorical) says: a revitalized interest in comic books is a perfectly healthy & reasonable post-adolescent preoccupation, especially for quiet types with world-saving inclinations buried not quite so deep as they might suspect.

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yes, i wrote the poem. i do that. “& everybody else already knows”

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why is it that the older i get, and the more surly & beautiful young men i meet who tell me that being called “cute” (& stay out of this, bex; you’re your own category entirely) makes their fingers curl in entirely unappealing ways, the more often i hear the word falling from my lips? please, god don’t let me turn into my mother with the hundred beanie babies & other too-cute fluffy things, all named & propped up around the room.

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i have to leap to her defense as soon as i slander my mother, every time, although i’m not sure this will sound like a defense to anyone but me: it isn’t just fuzzy things. she also names cars, statuary, & stalks of bamboo. really, i think my mother just enjoys naming things. she swears she’s not ready for grandchildren, but sometimes she calls to tell me what she’d name them.

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like weasels, batman is inherently funny. witness (okay, maybe it’s just me, but batman has always made things funnier to me!):

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me (in two separate threats): i could kick [whomever was being a butt in each instance].
jt the younger: one kick to rule them all!
jt the elder: or drop a bag of wolverines on him.
me: oooh! i’ll drop many wolverines!
me: wet, angry, HUNGRY wolverines! with splinters in their feet to make them extra angry.
jt the elder: yeah, and nagging, Fran Drescher voices
jt the younger: some day when I’m criminally insane some detective (batman?) will be like “I can’t figure this guy out, but he likes the number 27”
me: i’m totally telling batman the crazy 27 guy is you. >sigh< i have to go read boring theory before bed.
jt the younger: hahaha. have fun!
me: the day theory’s fun, kid, is the day i’ll need batman to drag my ass out of here! 🙂

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for lunch we’ll split a book and a banana pie

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who thinks i’m up for getting showered, dressed, out of here, & all the way to marshall street in the cold & sifting snow to get to starbucks before class? i think digitalpenny needs a cup of something fluffy.

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string of broken hearts

not even my own, this time around.  i’m just thinking about the people i love, all the people who’ve been just a little broken along the way, who are walking as strong as they can just a little bit cracked… one of them e-mailed me tonight to tell me the minute-long message i left on his cell last week made his valentine’s day, & i’d already almost forgotten i’d done it.  it’s the littlest, tiniest things.  i’ve left my work mostly undone today to weave instead, cyberthreads, e-mails in from & off to & aim-connections made with people i haven’t talked to in far too long whether i have anything to say or not, just to be there, just to close, metaphorically when the real thing can’t be done, that gap between your fingertips and someone else’s where if you’re an energy-worker the almost-visible sparks leap to make the circuits that keep us alive.  they’re broken, yeah.  we’re all broken.  but so long as we’re still weavers, we can keep us all together on the strings.  raise a glass, a spoon, an empty mug with room to fill with tea & share a cuppa for the ones you’ve gathered lately, the ones you have in reach, the ones you can still throw strings across the chasms to, & the ones you think have fallen away.  sometimes we find out after we’ve almost turned away that they’re still there after all.

notes from the cafe table

back in binghamton last night at the cyber cafe west, my decaf coffee & half of susan’s mocha, chris beaming when “long way” hits washington, hans had his kids there glowing in the blue light of their portable game machine & his guitar hands are still like a rocky forest stream that i could sit beside for hours, & the cell phone in jeff’s hand kept lighting up & we weren’t sure antje & her poor, under-prepared, not-yet-vermontized toyota were going to make it, but they did, she did, & despite the battery’s pow & the potential for the undazzling to ravel out it never did, she just kept smiling, & on a borrowed guitar sang a few old songs between the new ones, & told new snow-colored “i left the city” stories, & reached out to touch my arm in recognition between sets, where we stood at the counter & told school stories & planned out her next career. i’ll let her tell.

things are gonna change,
that’s what they do,
o but change has never been known
to wait for you

re ants: “they’re like the only wildlife i’ve seen since i moved to vermont. like, if moose were to come into my house, i’d be like ‘yay!'”

i got a hundred-man battalion who’ll lay down at my feet
but there’s a songbird who will not sing for me

re the rambling tale in the middle of “long way”: “this is the part where i usually play the harmonica, but i left it in the cabin. i hope the ants are practicing.”

boys grow out of the rust
spin their wheels & turn to dust
on blackbird lane
i can hear my momma saying
halleluiah, halleluiah, halleluiah

re finally getting the borrowed guitar into key for the next set: “hit it, ants!”

did i say “sugar”?

i might-shoulda said “cowboy coffee.” 

the spoon-eatingly acidic stuff sugar bounces right off.

i really ain’t feelin’ it today, y’all.

’round here…

we are all about the equal-opportunity cheerio-pissing, yes we are.

fuck another duck. & comet me too, sugar. comet me all over the place.

shall we play a game? (last chance!)

in junior high, a few weeks before valentines day, for like a dollar, you could buy a card, put someone’s name on it, & put it in a box. on v-day, the cards would appear tied around the stems of carnations (we couldn’t afford roses) that the group running the fundraiser would bring around to everybody’s homeroom & pass out by name. you didn’t have to put your own name on the card. so sometimes you confessed, and sometimes nobody knew who the cards–and so the flowers–were from. what you could do was choose a color for your card & flower. red ones for love (duh), pink ones for crushes, white ones for friends.

it was always the popular kids who got the most flowers, of course. but here in this social-pool, we are the popular kids. & i have a hankering to hand out (& maybe gather?) a whole bunch of flowers. since i’m not around to do it in realtime, here’s how we’ll play:

@-`-,-`–

the valentine rose game
instructions:
in the comments section of this post, tell me what color flower you’re leaving me. white means you love me cuz i’m such a terrific friend, pink means you love me in a silly crushy way, & red means you love-love me!
then click “anonymous” before you post the flower, so i won’t know who it’s from.

then copy & paste these instructions into your own lj so people will leave roses for you.
& remember: no one has to be officially playing to be bombarded with anonymous roses!

EDIT:you’ve got ONLY TODAY left to flower & be-flowered-by your friends list! (c’mon, people, look at all the pretty flowers–you KNOW you want some pretty flowers too!)

fucky

specifically, mcfuck, on a fuck cracker.

fuck. fuckity fuck fuck.

[edit: no more articulate than i about the whole affair, cuss-inspirer adds, “son of a %#$%@^&@&#^&@&*(@(@!!!!!”]

ok… weird thing: i know why i’m saying that, & nobody else needs to, & whatever.  but the weird part?  when i said it out loud, it seemed like a perfectly normal, disgruntled/disappointed human thing to be doing.  in print, it seems not only immature but crude & slighly embarrassing.  i’m 30 years old, for pete’s sake–i shouldn’t feel like a naughty girl for writing “fuck” in my lj.  or maybe i’m only 30, & shouldn’t feel like i’m incongruously borrowing the language of the young!  (which is how i justify leaving “& whatever” up there as if it actually carries any kind of syntactic meaning?)

maybe i’m just taking this blog class too seriously, & have become helplessly hyper aware of my audience, to the point where my voice will forever hereafter be too constrained & potential-listener modulated to be ever quite mine again.  like i don’t already think about who’s listening when i ramble on this way.

i’d go find a stupid quiz to help cure me of all that, but i’m too bitter atm for such flippant tomfoolery.  maybe tomorrow.                       absolutely not a comet.