There are 14 bussers. at least 3 of them are assclowns; 5 have set schedules or barely buss at all, 2 are brothers which are included in prior, 4 of them are some of my closest cats, 2 are married and only work together, 1 is transgender, 2 are newly employed, another 2 are hopefully about to depart. Then there's me. Also, I kinda miss Blake.
Hmm. So now I'm striving to always be on time, to better start the day right and lessen risk of being fired/sometimes quitting. Yes... the girls are trash, I have so much money--but I still spend too much income.
It's 6 am now. This went nowhere. I need to go to sleep.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Neruda
"You don't want to answer me.
But the questions do not die."
- Consequences, Extravagaria 1958
"Wandering love, I come back
with this heart both fresh and wearied,
belonging to water and sand,
to the dry spaces of the shore,
to the white war of the foam."
- Here, there, everywhere, Extravagaria 1958
All throughout Pablo Neruda's collections, Extravagaria and Fully Empowered, the books resulting from his return to Chile, I can't help but notice the recurring reference to "foam." These are his most personal works, derived from his autumn-minded journey, from his autumnal period, a testament to his "coming to rest." As a rediscovery of his home, both native land and sea, I understand the importance of season and the Pacific coast in his recollection. Though in my own wanderings, I too came to use the word "foam" very often during my writings last summer, all before my introduction to this man's vast, immense body of work. Just as any other time in life when this common happening is noticed, I have to wonder how this translates from generation to generation, from artist to artist -- the attachment to either sensation or perspective and a reluctance to let go, when the internal ashes have yet to settle.
But the questions do not die."
- Consequences, Extravagaria 1958
"Wandering love, I come back
with this heart both fresh and wearied,
belonging to water and sand,
to the dry spaces of the shore,
to the white war of the foam."
- Here, there, everywhere, Extravagaria 1958
All throughout Pablo Neruda's collections, Extravagaria and Fully Empowered, the books resulting from his return to Chile, I can't help but notice the recurring reference to "foam." These are his most personal works, derived from his autumn-minded journey, from his autumnal period, a testament to his "coming to rest." As a rediscovery of his home, both native land and sea, I understand the importance of season and the Pacific coast in his recollection. Though in my own wanderings, I too came to use the word "foam" very often during my writings last summer, all before my introduction to this man's vast, immense body of work. Just as any other time in life when this common happening is noticed, I have to wonder how this translates from generation to generation, from artist to artist -- the attachment to either sensation or perspective and a reluctance to let go, when the internal ashes have yet to settle.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
odetoyousothatyoumayrestandnowyouredead
please. I am not the artist you think I am. The words, on the roof of my mouth.
you are such a haunting thing, under my false exterior. and i was amongst it. i'm scared, for the life of everyone, it seems. they can at least pretend, but i can't escape you when i sleep. i just want to lie down and never wake up.
how does life happen to us, really?
I end so many series with the starting of a new sentence. But fuck, so do you.
I now wish to be imparted from you. I'll never send that last letter, cunt.
...in all our hesitations, the bold state of being.
catchupcatchupcatchup
all things that make me want to kill myself
So convinced that God is no answer
never was and never will be
yet what is it within ourselves that we are lacking?
what love that we have not yet found is there to embrace?
you are such a haunting thing, under my false exterior. and i was amongst it. i'm scared, for the life of everyone, it seems. they can at least pretend, but i can't escape you when i sleep. i just want to lie down and never wake up.
how does life happen to us, really?
I end so many series with the starting of a new sentence. But fuck, so do you.
I now wish to be imparted from you. I'll never send that last letter, cunt.
...in all our hesitations, the bold state of being.
catchupcatchupcatchup
all things that make me want to kill myself
So convinced that God is no answer
never was and never will be
yet what is it within ourselves that we are lacking?
what love that we have not yet found is there to embrace?
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