emma b. says

Friday, March 07, 2008

Happy Song

I'm letting go, I'm starting to drift away, it's beautiful.
Paraphrasing my current happy song on my brother-managed iPod.

And just like that, it was done.

So long pre-concieved notions, farewell benefitted job, so much for the sought after idyll, up in smoke after too many cigarettes and the beer I am becoming accustomed to, but don't yet totally enjoy. Hello to new hair, hello my inner super-dooper neat freak, girl, chillax, a spot in the sink is no cause for bleach.

but between you and me, it's always going to be alright to gyrate in the bath tub. Everybody has their own particular dance music, nobody ever has to know, we've got the secrecy of bath tubs and vehicles on freeways, in private we are all a superstar of our own private narrative, making amends, charging forth armed with the twin swords of imaginary righteousness, changing the ending, bossing, bowing, falling head over heels for the perfect disembodied dick. Dancing in the dark, striking Billy Idol poses, striking any pose, all of these poses (thank you Rufus) get you nowhere pretty goddamn fast. Poses are elementally static.

And then there is this. Totally unfamiliar, not fighting any current of any river in particular, not fighting any tidal pulls or the moon, just riding the current, the pull of the moon, the erratic economy. I've got no plans to lasso anything like some mystic cowgirl, I checked my ego at my front porch. Not fighting, I want to slide down the yellow brick road of varied songs, I am at the mercy of a tin man, the cowardly lion and fickle providence, somehow it will work out - that me and theoretical dog will win some kind of ecclesiastical golden ticket and spend our days between the Elysian Fields and a composite cafe somewhere between the west coast and Paris, in the middle of the ocean, where the coffee is sublime, where the cigarettes are endless and nobody ever heard of cancer, and I will write the kind of post cards I wrote at seventeen, guilessly free of the threat of velveeta that might smother genuine sentiment.

Not that I would have anything to say about this, that, or the other thing. I've been too busy sleeping.

fuck you flu of death.
I did get a sweet reprieve over the weekend, which included a skate rat I went to highschool with in the eighties. Hooray for fulfilling freshman fantasies, hooray for quid pro quo. So it goes, so I roll. I eagerly await the next spate of weirdness. Bring it.

Beautiful, beautiful, just beautiful. You should see my garden.


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