[ the whole catastrophe ]
HotDamn! Tisover. Dunwit. Fini. Grad school apshplications are on their merry way to colder and warmer climes, and school is no more, no more, no more. Beatings and burdens are still hanging around of course: mom requested a patio for x-mas and I gotta email the zillion professores that seem interesting. But! Bowie is singing his wacky heart out, Haruki Murakami has mad skillz, and I have a steamer to make baozi.
Other than that... I just need some sourysweet resolutions -- anything, everything for sanity and love. A little something to get my act together. To make reality more real. To make myself worthier of the world or the world worthier of me. Because this isn't how it should be. This selling of myself and desperation for acceptance, subconsious or superconscious. More catastrophe! more more mas more.
Rebel, Rebel, Revel, Reveal
What it is to be.
What it is to be me.
To play with the play.
And mostly most go, go, ghost, don't shiver here, you streamy stream of conscious-something. Think, instead, of what and where and how to flow. To lift your ownself up-o to that incalculability. Embarassment - rejection - is nothing in crass comparision to this fear the size o' man-hat-hand. Face it -- even if you lose face. Find the Other within your self and your self within the Other. Talk 'im up, here comes everybody, talk 'im down. B-B-B-Be the catastrophe, MoMo. |
