| 5/26/2005 03:53:00 PM |
[ fig your eat out ]
wheee. er... whoi. i'm officiously at woods hole oceanographic institute. it is entirely too cold here-- 40s cold. it's about a 15min walk to the water, though, via this beeootiful trail through the woods. the cherry trees are a-bloom, and things are peachy. |
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| 5/18/2005 01:56:00 AM |
[ and then she pulled out the ol' mysterium tremendum et fascinans thing ]
clarity and chaos go hand in hand
one's the singer, the other's the band
to know is to know not
whatever it is one ought
and lively live life unplanned. |
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| 5/10/2005 12:54:00 AM |
[ swinger, song-writer, Lord Buckley ]
Lord Buckley is a great one.
Lord who? Why His Lordship, of course - His Hipness, His Flipness, His Strictly Trippiness, His Most Incredible Crypticness, the Reverend of Irreverence, the Paul Bunyan of Bravado, His Double-Hip Ebullientness, His Intractable Impracticalness, His Undoubtedly Way Outedliness, the Charlie Parker of Talk, the Fred Astaire of the Tongue Dance, the Guru of the Gone World, the Paganini of Prose, the Man with the Multiple Minds and the Magical Mouth, the Voice of the Viper from the Vortex, the Cardinal of Cool, the Vicar of Visionaries, the Bishop of Bebop, Beatness and Boo, the Loose-Lipped Lingo Lover, the Purple Pope of the Poetical Patois - Lord Buckley!
Here's the Nazz.
He was some kind of a way-out dramatic storyteller, a word musician, who used his magnificent theatrical voice and jazz phrasing to compose language symphonies and create a unique attention-grabbing, soul-tickling story fabric by reweaving ancient tales with the vital fiber of beat lingo - "hipsemantic," he called it - so that the listener was able to hear the old and tired as fresh and vigorous.
I can dig it. |
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| 5/01/2005 10:43:00 PM |
[ esta vez...con fuse! ]
Dear Self,
Where are you going? when? and with whom? Adventures cannot live themselves, you know. Tests without risks are mosquitoes bearing #2 pencils, and sensicallity is proverbially having no nothing to show.
Why do we do anything? Except for fun. What's right, what's culturally acceptable, what's culturally expectable...expectoratable!
Who knows the answers, knouns not the questions. Knaught eye. What will you say? and think with worried lips. What night this knight am Aye? Quixotic and standing under so many ideas, dias, dios. I am the night who nows no fare. Who docks his pairs in the wisp o' wills. Not at all like the last, mal bicho that I am. My face reflects none of that security, only the lionliness and vertistop of space unexplored. Where belonging is yet to be born, yet to be destroyed. Where I wasn't drawn and quartered before I was conceived and glued back together as an after-thought. Where the possibilities are possible, and you are what you it.
Standing among the cacti, arms akimbo, if you say, "In vino veritas, in veritas sophismata," I'll nod right along. And if you say, "codes are useless because no one understands each other anyway," I won't disagree. But I'll only scream back, from my cedar groan grove, "the world is round, so there you have it. if you can't make change, you can at least pay credit."
Sincerely,
Everyone
P.S. Give my kindest regards to your exams, and I do hope you will find it in your heart to forgive them. They know not what they doobeedoobeedoo. |
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Moosi
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