Some Words on Pages of mechanical penicl taken from my notebook,
September 9, 2010
Dishes
I used to really dislike Hate even, doing the dishes as a kid. I didn't understand the thought or effort that went into my mother's cooking. I viewed our family dinners as an arena.
I have often related to the bull, perhaps more so than ever in my youth, but in accepting this, I believe I now understand the role of the Matador. By thirteen I was sort of a "fight to the death" (my own) kinda gal... By twenty-two I realize the process has always been about fighting to live. Suicide, death, birth, etc.
It's not Glamorous. Hollywood can try to be immortal but the mere act of trying, in these erotic fantasy worlds with plastic botoxed vampires fucking til the break of dawn, defeats the goal...
Right now I can see the wind is picking up and steadily tossing leaves and branches around outside, a car just drove by, my friend is asleep in his room, a plane is going by, this mechanical pencil is scratching on the paper, and i am taking deep breaths yet all of this is quietly droned out by the consistent hum of an air conditioner. As a kid, I found myself excited by the idea of te power going out or a natural disaster occuring. Back then I didn't think about the very real consequences of such things.
or Desire.
In moments of objectivity, that is, when I think I am viewing things in an objective manner, sex loses its appeal and I am left wondering if solitude is making me just as desensitized as watching too much television would. Ha.
Today. September 14, 2011
I'm weathered. But hey, I'm not scratching nearly as much when I play pool.
