My foot's been hurting. If I have a tiny little bone broken in there I'll be so mad. The weird thing is yesterday it was my right foot and today it's my left. I can only assume it spread. "It" being tiny little bone broken -itis.
I bought a dozen donuts for $6. Go American. Donuts for a week cost less than two cups of coffee. I would like to say that knowing there is a Krispy Kreme 15 minutes away and having a roommate with a car can be challenging.
I am to young to be tired of the college party scene. But I'm tired of the college party scene. I think I need to move up in the world.
I think I am also tired of the college-college scene but I am almost done with the quarter so I'm feeling good.
I think this summer I will write more. I'd like to do another novel. Have an idea. Need time to write.
I haven't worked out in over two weeks. In other news I've taken to the habit of wearing parkas around so no one needs to experience the donut filled fat fuck that I truly am.
I started watching Doctor Who and my whole life is on the brink. Also, Tumblr needs to be weaned. If I spent my time on Tumblr on writing I might actually produce something worth writing.
My new roommates are nice.
I got a good grade on my last paper.
I am getting better at Italian. I am taking summer classes in Italian.
As always the search for time and energy is futile. The search for viable future is also... let's not talk about it.
I have not had a hard time being happy, not that this is new, but it is nice to know I will wake up tomorrow and not wallow.
I met SOMEONE. Not putting eggs in one basket until it is clear he is the right eggs and I am the right basket. That sounded... let's move on.
The ex doesn't know about the someone and I am banking on him not reading this. The ex and I are on okay terms although I have pushed him away recently. Yet to decide pros and cons of this. Hoping again, he is not part of the readership. If you are, hello...
Families alright, same as usual. Mom is getting evermore famous. I am getting evermore anxious about living up to the role models-- even though they'll say it's not important and I know they are part of the readership. Maybe the only part.
Roommate sick. Can't get sick. Well have the ability, but really don't WANT to.
Trying to think of other things.... have job. want travel. eat food.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
A Summer in Your Arms
I would give a summer in your arms for all the joy of one quite day with myself. I would give sunbeams on shoulder blades and beads of sweat at brows for peace of mind when loneliness descends. Do not ask for my spring. Let April open and close with warm storms. Give me May with sun's gentle memory. June slips candied sunbeams through my window pane.
Seasons are rhythmic. The best things in life have a rhythm. Time has a rhythm, the second hand playing metronome. The sun sings chorus, the moon rhapsodizes it's verse. My feet do not tire of the life I dance. I dance alone, the waltz is mine. My motion is not yours to keep and my music is not yours to remember.
Seasons are rhythmic. The best things in life have a rhythm. Time has a rhythm, the second hand playing metronome. The sun sings chorus, the moon rhapsodizes it's verse. My feet do not tire of the life I dance. I dance alone, the waltz is mine. My motion is not yours to keep and my music is not yours to remember.
Watercolor Memories
Want to sit in sun. Want to wear dresses. Want to go to the beach. Want to write. Want to read. Want to drink red wine. Want to go swimming. Want to lie naked in the grass.
Want to be 4 years old again with the blonde kitchen table destroyed slowly by my mother’s and my craft projects, sun streaming in, all I see are blonde, sunny, pastel blurs but I know it’s my first memory. Not even sure I was 4. I know there were many days like that and maybe they’ve all run together in my mind like too wet watercolors.
I want runny summer days like egg yoke. I want slow tortoise nights, big and round and pensive. I want to be close with myself again. Shut out the voices and the noises, the vices and the niceties.
A long hum from far away, deep like the lowest note on a stand up bass. I can hear it, but it feels stronger resonating through me. It is louder inside my body. I don’t know but it grumbles the ground.
I want out of the city. Off the side walks, out of the buildings, away from the freeways, out from under the skyline.
Remember the stars? I can’t remember the stars? In the emerald city, and I’ve never seen so much grey.
Remember the watercolor memories. Everything is a watercolor memory.
Want to be 4 years old again with the blonde kitchen table destroyed slowly by my mother’s and my craft projects, sun streaming in, all I see are blonde, sunny, pastel blurs but I know it’s my first memory. Not even sure I was 4. I know there were many days like that and maybe they’ve all run together in my mind like too wet watercolors.
I want runny summer days like egg yoke. I want slow tortoise nights, big and round and pensive. I want to be close with myself again. Shut out the voices and the noises, the vices and the niceties.
A long hum from far away, deep like the lowest note on a stand up bass. I can hear it, but it feels stronger resonating through me. It is louder inside my body. I don’t know but it grumbles the ground.
I want out of the city. Off the side walks, out of the buildings, away from the freeways, out from under the skyline.
Remember the stars? I can’t remember the stars? In the emerald city, and I’ve never seen so much grey.
Remember the watercolor memories. Everything is a watercolor memory.
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