blue pool words
I will try to write as simply as I can tonight.
capitalization might be lost. simple.
i photographed a small pool. the word puddle won't suffice. it was too much water run off from a hose and into the grass, so everything underneath was a mini swamp bayou and i and my camera looked into it and upon it in wonder and i took some very beautiful photos that only i might find truly beautiful.
i just discovered bradford cox, and i find him very beautiful. and ... he wears a dress, or anything well.
the braver part of myself sits apart living in a squat house somewhere.
a few years ago i sort of did this. moved away on an air mattress in a garbage house where puddles (the word) formed in the kitchen and a dead something had died out on our 'lawn' in the back.
i lived there 3 months and then moved on to other more ridiculous living situations.
i've become a bit more stabilized, as one does in the 30's.
i feel risen and bathed and died and buried and risen and bathed...etc.
my love is apartmentalized. my love is apart from me today. not far though.
my writing is good.
my hands...they can do anything.
i like freeforming everything. many people don't understand. control freaks who never learnt to let go. i'll let them slide. because i don't care.
i don't care.
i let it all go.
my love rises up and my intelligence too and i say i like the things i like to others if only to keep them silenced for a time. i mean...hmmm.
when i think of all of the coworkers i haven't really seen. they haven't seen me either. i'm saying: i've shared my loves and inclinations in the past and found out that its a wasted battle or even worse, a wasted word.
it's not really wasted of course.
but in the moment it meant nothing to them or at least less or perhaps it was very threatening.
back to being simple.
now i am simple and state things cleanly and say yes or no and let my silence lead the way. so others calm themselves and we all calm down together.
i'll explain more later. my cat is meowing intermittently and causing my heart to race.
there was some hilarity earlier.
office humor springs forth out of nowhere and you have to be ready for it, to truly go off the rocker of sanity into joviality. corporate times demand corporate jokes.
so someone had created a document. a client had sent a report over, and they'd named it (oh my god, this is so very good), someone had named it:
The Indicated Output.
......
Just take that in and watch the tendrils of ridiculousness grow. The Indicated Output? What in god's name...? What does it mean?
We all sat there in shock and slowly that office creeper humor of loopiness crept in. Everyone kept saying, "The Indicated Output" and I was trying it on for some weirdo possible band names in my head. My personal office favorite dad with the friendliest demeanor was muttering, "You can't make that up."
I'm giggling even now.
Cat goes meow. Fan blows on me.
Fans always blow on me. i must always have wind a'blowin on me, in the background. the lulling breeze.
why write. sleep
come touch me god.
i won't sensor these words, even for you, reader with the light up eyes.
even for you.
oh to be calm and to forget what you said a year or 10 ago. to be normalized. normcore. that's a phase isn't it. even fashion consumed it. ate up all the pedestrian ways of doing things and then hurled it onto a few models and then made them march down a catwalk.
fashion might be the best and the worst of the art forms. the self expression of any body is a beautiful thing, especially if done with humor. but humor lacks as soon as the price point skyrockets into neverland and models are the only currency we're allowed to view as beautiful. i'm so bored with all of that perfect impossible beauty.
i stand here happily...intact. i look for the face that reflects my own. there is this abject/object beauty that i can get beyond and behind. if only for the sake of something biological within me that must recognize the scientific parallel lines and balanced proportions and even features of something or someone resembling a greek statue or a goddess of old. the movies tell me as such, and i have had crushes and looked lovingly on very handsome men. but then the ones that get to me reflect back...
something like grass growing. like that earthy way of being. where beside them i might have a chance of being what i like to be best. not just beautiful.
i mean we grow together like
hands.
i'm tired and beauty has been written about enough.
enjoy my life, enjoy it. i write for you, reader. i open a pathway through here, with smoothed over stones and green written and lit hills and fields and sing a song that i didn't know the words to til i wrote it for you and me to sing.
(that's a sentence.)
and then you stop by and i don't worry what you think and write exact what's on my mind. and wait for you again. it's a game we play, forever now.
good night sweet sirs and madams of the skies. writer is tired. i got a bit tangled or watery again, but then i am a very watery one at times.
the grass grows and i am kneeling in it looking downup at the small sky in the middle of a suburb garden grass field and it stares back at me. too.
night night night.
capitalization might be lost. simple.
i photographed a small pool. the word puddle won't suffice. it was too much water run off from a hose and into the grass, so everything underneath was a mini swamp bayou and i and my camera looked into it and upon it in wonder and i took some very beautiful photos that only i might find truly beautiful.
i just discovered bradford cox, and i find him very beautiful. and ... he wears a dress, or anything well.
the braver part of myself sits apart living in a squat house somewhere.
a few years ago i sort of did this. moved away on an air mattress in a garbage house where puddles (the word) formed in the kitchen and a dead something had died out on our 'lawn' in the back.
i lived there 3 months and then moved on to other more ridiculous living situations.
i've become a bit more stabilized, as one does in the 30's.
i feel risen and bathed and died and buried and risen and bathed...etc.
my love is apartmentalized. my love is apart from me today. not far though.
my writing is good.
my hands...they can do anything.
i like freeforming everything. many people don't understand. control freaks who never learnt to let go. i'll let them slide. because i don't care.
i don't care.
i let it all go.
my love rises up and my intelligence too and i say i like the things i like to others if only to keep them silenced for a time. i mean...hmmm.
when i think of all of the coworkers i haven't really seen. they haven't seen me either. i'm saying: i've shared my loves and inclinations in the past and found out that its a wasted battle or even worse, a wasted word.
it's not really wasted of course.
but in the moment it meant nothing to them or at least less or perhaps it was very threatening.
back to being simple.
now i am simple and state things cleanly and say yes or no and let my silence lead the way. so others calm themselves and we all calm down together.
i'll explain more later. my cat is meowing intermittently and causing my heart to race.
there was some hilarity earlier.
office humor springs forth out of nowhere and you have to be ready for it, to truly go off the rocker of sanity into joviality. corporate times demand corporate jokes.
so someone had created a document. a client had sent a report over, and they'd named it (oh my god, this is so very good), someone had named it:
The Indicated Output.
......
Just take that in and watch the tendrils of ridiculousness grow. The Indicated Output? What in god's name...? What does it mean?
We all sat there in shock and slowly that office creeper humor of loopiness crept in. Everyone kept saying, "The Indicated Output" and I was trying it on for some weirdo possible band names in my head. My personal office favorite dad with the friendliest demeanor was muttering, "You can't make that up."
I'm giggling even now.
Cat goes meow. Fan blows on me.
Fans always blow on me. i must always have wind a'blowin on me, in the background. the lulling breeze.
why write. sleep
come touch me god.
i won't sensor these words, even for you, reader with the light up eyes.
even for you.
oh to be calm and to forget what you said a year or 10 ago. to be normalized. normcore. that's a phase isn't it. even fashion consumed it. ate up all the pedestrian ways of doing things and then hurled it onto a few models and then made them march down a catwalk.
fashion might be the best and the worst of the art forms. the self expression of any body is a beautiful thing, especially if done with humor. but humor lacks as soon as the price point skyrockets into neverland and models are the only currency we're allowed to view as beautiful. i'm so bored with all of that perfect impossible beauty.
i stand here happily...intact. i look for the face that reflects my own. there is this abject/object beauty that i can get beyond and behind. if only for the sake of something biological within me that must recognize the scientific parallel lines and balanced proportions and even features of something or someone resembling a greek statue or a goddess of old. the movies tell me as such, and i have had crushes and looked lovingly on very handsome men. but then the ones that get to me reflect back...
something like grass growing. like that earthy way of being. where beside them i might have a chance of being what i like to be best. not just beautiful.
i mean we grow together like
hands.
i'm tired and beauty has been written about enough.
enjoy my life, enjoy it. i write for you, reader. i open a pathway through here, with smoothed over stones and green written and lit hills and fields and sing a song that i didn't know the words to til i wrote it for you and me to sing.
(that's a sentence.)
and then you stop by and i don't worry what you think and write exact what's on my mind. and wait for you again. it's a game we play, forever now.
good night sweet sirs and madams of the skies. writer is tired. i got a bit tangled or watery again, but then i am a very watery one at times.
the grass grows and i am kneeling in it looking downup at the small sky in the middle of a suburb garden grass field and it stares back at me. too.
night night night.
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