Rain rain rain rain pitter patter wind winter wheeze weasling weather

Winter drags.

I am trying for the 50,678th time to get off coffee.

It is pouring outside and when the wind wakes you up before your alarm does it is ridiculously unpleasant. Just seems like it shouldn't be the natural order of things for nature itself to wake you before our mechanized world does.

Beckett is irritating me.

Winter drags.

I can't remember if I have yet pimped out Nameless Magazine which I work on and last year's print issue is finally out this coming week! Yay! Buy one! Shameless promotion!

Did I mention that winter drags?

I spend my days thinking up things I would like to do that don't involve formal education and classes and schedules and papers and Beckett.

I would like to swim in coffee.

I would like to be a Jedi and have Obi-Wan as my mentor because he's so friggin badass in a really restrained and elegant kind of way and I would totally dig learning lightsaber combat and I would really really dig being able to chill out with Yoda and meditate and have him offer me grand life advice about finding inner-balance.

I would like to spend all day every day doing nothing but watching Celebrity Rehab 3 and True Life and Keeping Up With the Kardashians and Intervention and Toddlers & Tiaras because observing other people and their miserable lives just seems to make sense sometimes.

I would like my love to die.

I would like some talent more instantly-gratifying than writing. Something showy and physical, like incredible acrobatic skill or extreme sports or to be one of those people who does gymnastics on horseback. Something that is far removed from poetry.

I would like the world to still speak Latin.

I used to want to be and would still like to be the female Titanium Power Ranger. I used to be in love with that man. He had such a story. So much angst. Very and dark and brooding. Good stuff.

I would like to run in my underwear through a field of promulgating flowers and then collapse like Dorothy--only without the opium overtones--and feel the naturalness of the petals to skin to skin to the curious velvety resistances of nature like when you rub a flower between your fingers and there is so much friction but it is more real than most things and it would be like marriage in the purest sense of the word without ritual and without religion and it would just be skin to petal and the body's indentation in a greater splay of colors and life and the soul the soul the soul and a frictionless soul just some kind of love and redolence of better days.

Mostly though I would like to learn contentedness.

Beckett writes:

they come...
different and the same
with each it is different and the same
with each the absence of love is different
with each the absence of love is the same

Love love love.

Always back to love.






Winter drags.