Thursday, April 12, 2007

Hello. I would like to describe the way ________ but I am afraid it might alter the extremely delicate balance in __________. I wouldn't be able to take it. I don't understand these paroxysms of anger and attraction.
I managed to complete my essay on censorship, but it was a rambling, ranting piece more than anything; I sounded like some irate director who'd been prosecuted under the Films Act or something. My head, my heart is probably doing some censoring of its own, which is maybe the reason why I can't produce anything pertinent. It took me ages to churn out that essay, and I consider it a really scrappy piece of work compared to some of the stuff I know I'm capable of producing. I need to get my act together. I think there's something missing from me, but I don't know what. Take yourself back to where you came from, your tongue, your ears, your eyes, you hands, your feet. And then you are 10 again; your heart jumps at the prospect of a trip to the zoo. 5, and you cannot take the school bus on your own (so she holds your hand). 2, you still think Santa Claus is real. 000000000000 adrift in an amniotic silence, you exist; only, the world hasn't been born yet.
I was reading this article in Discovery (Science mag. Geeky, I know, but it's really interesting!) about how people think they can distinguish the smell of money because it's metallic. But no actually, it's because money smells like blood.
You could smell like a warm, comforting breath from an oven baking apple strudel and vanilla frosting and chocolate cake and something else. Or you could be laundry, drying in the wind. It could be something that I love smelling, like newborns, or closeness, or the rain or All Of The Above. Goodnight, I wish I had the resolve of a martyr.

- don't be trippin'
by @ 9:10 PM