emma b. says

Thursday, February 01, 2007

sometimes songs get lost on playlists, they resurface weeks and years later to momentarily confound, belt a few meaningful chords and are gone again. Mayhap forever this time, memory as whimsy as it is.

Then again, never underestimate the power of a good dj, slinging sentiment like a gunslinger, all of us cattle trapped in our cars, dappled in bulls eyes and shaded by structured demographic marketing, still we yield to the romanticism just as surely as we don our designer sunglasses against the feeble rays of the winter sun.

and never underestimate the full moon. here we have a tidal pull and I would really like to rest my head in the lee of the dunes on a warming plate of spaghetti, pull the coals about me and bark or trill, or perchance enact the hurdy gurdy while screeching at the opaque night sky, there are no mystics here after all, no more, they for forevermore in tales all for princesses and peas, a smattering of dwarves and Magyical Creatures - fuck renfaire anyway, fuck those dirty hippies and erstwhile drama queens for ------ why can't I find that damn song anyway, also why I haven't I won the lottery, because, well why not me.

why not me, I am one of those 21st century holdouts, I still believe, categorically, in everything. Unwisely, wittingly. Such as it is, I am thirty-five years old and I still make wishes on eyelashes and hold my breath through tunnels, I cannot suppress that notion that one day my ship will come in, on it my prince charming, in the hold all kinds of riches, or not. Daydreams they do scatter in the cold light of reality, just as surely as my bed tonight will be mine and mine alone. But what are tales for, but to bolster, carry me forth on the froth of my sheets out into the warm seas into Poseiden's embrace, I'll go down to bet on sea horses and get proficient with a trident.

so to wake in a giant clam shell, so to wake up in sheets, nobodies Venus on her way to work.


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