3wishes

if i had three wishes
i’d wish for a tree
a big one that reached ‘round the sky with its arms outstretched and open like
me. 

if i had two wishes
i’d wish for a spoon
so my soup would slide smoothly from my hand to my mouth like the stars to the
moon. 

if i had one wish as
i dangled from trees
and ate from the moon-spoon
and outstretched my arms like the stars ‘cross the world
i’d wish for a shoe
just one, ‘cause you see, the other one fell while i swung from my tree to reach
you.

3:14pm

Unlike the Fish, I am still the Eldest. I must've "woken up" four times this morning. Each time I fell back asleep or feigned sleep until I couldn't stand the sight of my bed.

11:30, I tidied my desk a little. Didn't dust, though. I'm procrastinating that.

Ate breakfast at lunch.

Facebooked a little.

Succumbed to a little depression.

Washed dishes.

Cleaned the living room and kitchen a little.

Now I am listening to my Perfect Playlist and steeling myself for laundry preparations (sorting the clothing).

I wrote a poem yesterday. Maybe I even wrote two. I don't know. The other one might've been in my head.

Listen to Alice, by Tom Waits, sometime.

It is a beautiful, dreamy song. The saxophone and Waits's gravelly voice lends the song an other-worldliness that's...rare.

It's dreamy weather we're on
You waved your crooked wand
Along an icy pond with a frozen moon
A murder of silhouette crows I saw
And the tears on my face
And the skates on the pond
They spell Alice

I disappear in your name
But you must wait for me
Somewhere across the sea
There's a wreck of a ship
Your hair is like meadow grass on the tide
And the raindrops on my window
And the ice in my drink
Baby all I can think of is Alice

Arithmetic arithmetock
Turn the hands back on the clock
How does the ocean rock the boat?
How did the razor find my throat?
The only strings that hold me here
Are tangled up around the pier

And so a secret kiss
Brings madness with the bliss
And I will think of this
When I'm dead in my grave
Set me adrift and I'm lost over there
And I must be insane
To go skating on your name
And by tracing it twice
I fell through the ice
Of Alice

And so a secret kiss
Brings madness with the bliss
And I will think of this
When I'm dead in my grave
Set me adrift and I'm lost over there
And I must be insane
To go skating on your name
And by tracing it twice
I fell through the ice
Of Alice
There's only Alice

Laugh

First things first. 

In response to the Fish's comment:

It IS a great TobyMac song!

And second things second. 

I am sitting in solitude, free from story pressures (finished 10 AM this morning. All I have to show for three days of sitting in front of the computer is 100 word shavings in the delete button and a couple ficlets) and free from...well, everything!

So I feel great.

And I have a new favourite haiku, written by the talented ~Danteholic:

If I had money, 

lots of it, I would buy me

some of your loving.

Oh, and Fish...I found a deviant today who I suspected for a moment was you..she wrote a few tankas. :P

Music is the nectar of the gods (as a quote I think I heard says). Especially classical music, though. Chopin, Bach... 

Victor from the Corpse Bride. 

D'you know, not everyone gets my sense of humour. 

Which makes sense.

I was thinking about the sense of humour and what it is exactly...and I have concluded that a sense of humour is not just what you laugh at or the jokes you crack. 

It's an outlook on life; a worldview, if you will. 

It's why you laugh. 

It's how you laugh.

And maybe that's why I like dry senses of humour. They make sense. 

None of this sarcasm for me, thanks. Not that I have anything against it or those who employ it. Not at all. 

All I need is here, right here at my fingertips. 

Music. Letters. My always-being-lost-and-found ring (that reflects me, now that I think about it. Always getting lost. Always being found). 

Did I omit anything?

I don't think so. 

Jesus made my fingertips. He's not under them (Silly!).

And my family and my friends won't fit underneath them. 

^.*

Bottoms Up

My Fine Arts story is due tomorrow. 

My brain will not surrender the best words in which to rewrite it. 

And I must rewrite it. 

8oo words over the limit is a Flashing Red Warning Sign shouting at me and my logy brain. 

Stupid logy brain. 

I have the plotline in my head.

Maybe that's the problem. 

Maybe I should have just started writing and not bothered with plotlines or summaries. 

Oh yes. The beginning picture is very clear. The beginning paragraph, on the other hand, is hazy. 

Why can't Life always be fresh-fruited and bunny-hopped? 

With thought bubble-pictures appearing above people's heads. 

And neon cars buzzing through the air. 

And utterly silent places. 

I. Need. Something. Other. Than. What. I. Have. 

Which is something that I don't know and can't comprehend.

Reminds me of a line from one of my favourite books.

"He was crying into his beer last night."

"I didn't know Ethan drank."

"His root beer."

I need a drink. 

:P

Man-Sweaters

In a past post, Does It Hurt?, I mentioned my beloved man-sweater. 

Three days after that post, I see the new youth pastor wearing the exact same one. I think it was the same size, too. 

So I was laughing (silently) throughout the entire night. 

But it's all good.

I'm glad that no one reads these posts except for the Fish. 

END OF SHORT POST