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Archive for August, 2003

 
|| August 7, 2003 || 8:35 am || Comments (4) ||

*gasping for air*

Over…at….Clayyyytonnnnn’s (I know I’ve said stuff is funny before, but I didn’t see this one coming or I wouldn’t have bothered. I’ve not laughed so hard in my life, I swear it).

Okay, bye now. For real this time.

 
|| August 7, 2003 || 1:30 am || Comments (2) ||

I believe, ahhh, I’ll take a couple days off. Be good to yourselves (and don’t be shitheads to one another, either).

::: :: ::: :: :::

you’ll get no answer from me / about what I want or what I get / brave enough to speak afraid to see / confuse the issue till you forget

and I’ve tried / to finally decide / why / I’m in your face

and if you can’t already tell / I am unable to let things go / I’m told I do it very well / but more important you should know

that all the same / you’ve got no one to blame / but yourself / if you call that a waste

cause it ain’t me / that’s been hurting you inside / and if you’ve learned / you’ll know much more than I

that you’re gonna have to go and find it / you’ll have to dig beneath the ground / you’ll have to unearth every ugly stone / that kept you on your own / and simply put them down / you’re gonna have to look around

you’ll get no answer from me / about what I get or what I want / that was enough to make her leave / she’s not the first one come and gone

and I don’t care / buyer beware / of me / cause it might get rough

if you want peace then live alone / if you wanna hide then find a stage / each a brief but perfect home / to accommodate your rage

and sometimes / in the midst of all my crimes / I feel lost / or have I lost enough

remaining friends / remind me as they say / it’s up to you / the things you throw away

and still you’re gonna have to go and find it / you’ll have to dig beneath the ground / you’ll have to unearth every ugly stone / that kept you on your own / and simply put them down / you’re gonna have to look around / you’re gonna have to look around

you’re gonna have to look around

// Blues Traveller, “Look Around”

 
|| August 6, 2003 || 9:43 pm || Comments (0) ||

Besides, the poor Indians would have had less reason to complain that the English took away their land if they had received it by way of a portion with their daughters. Had such affinities been contracted in the beginning, how much bloodshed had been prevented and how populous would the country have been, and, consequently, how considerable! Nor would the shade of the skin have been any reproach at this day, for if a Moor may be washed white in three generations, surely an Indian might have been blanched in two.

That William Byrd, what a fucking card.

 
|| August 6, 2003 || 5:54 am || Comments (6) ||

Just an FYI…if you’re on Sand Mountain (and I ask you, who won’t be trapped here in redneck hayull at some point in their life??) and just so happen to be at Super Wal-Mart, I’m fairly difficult to miss.

I’m the shopper with a too-tight ponytail headache (my mother taught me well) and the four-year-old crouched on the bottom shelf, next to the row of Turkey Deep-Fryers that have just been clearanced, saying, “Wook, mommy! I’m a box.”

He’s apparently running out of good material, as last month he was a cat that walked (crawled) and crouched on the back of the sofa for hours on end and a mere two weeks ago found him lying on his back in the floor of the can-foods aisle at the local Piggly Wiggly as I was price-comparing canned peas, his limbs drawn up to him, looking for all the world like what I was sure would turn out to be a cockroach.

“Wook, evahbodee! I’m a weaf!”

 
|| August 5, 2003 || 7:10 pm || Comments (2) ||

Ahhhhh, for shitsakes.

 
|| August 5, 2003 || 1:16 pm || Comments (4) ||

As a child in Oklahoma, I used to lie in fields of clover and wildflowers staring up at the sky and plotting my escape. Midwest skies are expansive, yellow-white and given to inducing flights of fancy — especially in fleet-footed girls with overactive imaginations. Scenario after scenario would unfold up there in front of my eyes; dramatic enactments of my future Exploits of Greatness and Daring were quite the norm.

I would weave my long fingers through the rich patches of clover, palms cushioned softly. If hands could sigh, mine most certainly would have at such times. Large chunks of days were spent (not wasted, oh no) on my knees, shins flat to the earth, body hunkered down, eyes searching-searching-searching for the patently elusive four-leaf clover. So much so that my shoulders and halter-topped torso would often carry a richer shade of tan than the rest of my body.

I needed a four-leaf clover; wishes are just wishes until validated by some token of fortune. Every child knows this to be fact. Crossing fingers and hoping fervently are powerful (and necessary) in their own rights, but a concrete offering from the universe makes your dream(s) a shoe-in for fruition.

Some days I felt so strongly about this philosophy that I would try to force a cheat: I’d pluck a select few ‘just-so‘ shaped three-leaf shamrocks and carefully split one leaf, brow furrowed and lips pooched out, trying impotently to shape the split halves into something resembling genuine.

I don’t think I was ever very proficient or successful in this pursuit, but I kept trying.

I often carried a small thermos of milk with me on my daily excursions. It was dairyfarm milk –not store-bought– and was fresh and thick and sweet. I’d gather fistfuls of an edible, yellow-flowered type of clover we called ‘sheepshire‘ and chew them thoughtfully. The taste, the sharpness and tang of it, was always a welcome and pleasant shock to my senses. If nervous, happy guilt had a taste, it would be that of sheepshire, I’m sure of it. The draughts of milk I pulled down from the yellow plastic thermos-cup formed a lukewarm pool in my mouth. Its lack of heat or cold did not sully it — as a matter of fact, it was sweetly satisfying to me and strangely complimented the sheepshire’s fresh bite.

Even feeling so shackled by my surroundings, so absolutely tethered to the flat lands of the midwest, these were some of the finest and most free times in my life. I miss them sometimes in a bittersweet way, but despite the gulf of years separating us there is a definite recognition and kinship: I still carry that hopeful, breathless girl at the kernel of my center.

I like her very much.

 
|| August 5, 2003 || 5:58 am || Comments (3) ||

Spotted here this morning (don’t ask why the fuck I was there….I have no idea, either):

Brandi: why u bothering cangirls

Brandi: hell ur the dumb one

Folks, if that’s not comedy, then I don’t know comedy.