and i ask myself
what the fork am i doing?
only i don't say "fork."
what do you all think? that's not part of the poem. we're outta the poem now.
(or are we?)
(this ain't no poem, baby.)
norman mailer, who said you need one thing in order to be a writer, but it's really two things, if you count each testicle as an individual, died today. or yesterday. whatever.
i am most disappointed to be disappointed in Fingersmith, the TV adaptation of the famous Sarah Waters novel. definitely shoulda read the book first. i think it's my headspace, as they say, and as i was telling shmizla, though i started out complimenting her banana bread. there's another curséd thing about that work of art too.
oh, it's a bit of a rough night down here in the lower marlborough quadrant, or whatever the official neighborhood name is. i'm gonna be sleeping sounder than my neighbor, though, likely.
got one load of laundry partly done. put batteries in my new flashlight. went for a walk in the woods.
which reminds me, what the fork am i doing? what space is this, this headspace? heartspace too loud. can't hear headspace. but i am up in that headspace, where the pounding muffled heart, down there somewhere goin' crazy, echoes loudly through everything g g g g g
muse later, maybe, on: permission not to think