Filed under: Garble
I’ve been writing like demon child asbestos-breath. Or not. Maybe more like an angular druid-wraith-metallicized skyscraping atom-smasher. —-
Famous last words: “I’m not drunk, I’m only bleeding.” My pen is leaking where the cat hit it. I saw my cat’s nictitating membranes lazily sheathing his emerald marble-eyes earlier. They looked like little cloudy earths set deep in the milky way passage of his coat. Deep, but giant, like the self-important guesses of a pre-scientific artisan. I’m not weird, I’m just bleeding.
People’s minds are pretty much theirs. They do largely what you want them to do, and sometimes we allow things to become scrambled because it works out better for us that way in the meantime. No big deal, just a healthy paradigm change waiting around the corner. Sometimes I think I write because I love the English language. Sometimes I think it’s because I hate it. Language is the bastard doppleganger of the pure idea. Writ is its unseemly and simple cousin who hangs out by the water fountain.
Tell Shaq to give me my precious vitamins back. Hahaha. Seriously, I’m having trouble synthesizing the proper aminos and junk.
I pray I am given an opportunity to use the word “wenchzest” in every day conversation sometime in the near future.
I remember camp days, but I’m not stuck there. I remember mud dabbers carousing in corners, alighting menacingly on lunch bags. Sweat and bug juice. Hurry and get out of the water, Tommy saw a snake.
Like like like like Hey – God is great and God is good, let’s burn down the neighborhood. Metaphoricalically.
Sometimes I feel like writing but I spout nonsense. It makes sense to me, at the time. A thought-attack caused by mingled connections between the interweaving strings of my brains. Like so many soft explosions firing in all directions, a battlefield at dusk, seen from space. If you talk like that, the girls won’t get it. Well, _____ the girls. That’s what the goal is anyway, right? Let’s really liberate the post-modern female. How about you get off your high-horse and off your knees. We told you to wear make-up so you wore make-up. Now we don’t care, but you still wear it. Why? Because if you don’t, someone other female will and that could be you. Should be you. Must be you. We’ve helped breed an insidious thing, competition without prize.
Pictures and ideals suck you dry like an old sponge. A women’s revolution took her from one slave-gig to another. The hidden truth isn’t gender-specific; it’s life specific. Revolute inside. Let Christ extract you to the no-zone. Freedom comes on the wings of His saving knowledge and curious infinite Grace. Thank you Jesus.
God made me. He set my brainz aflame. He set my heart abuzz. He put oceanz in mine eyez. He said, “Thou shalt not LOL but laugh aloud.” So I did, you know?
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