Peripatetic, Writer, Harbinger of Mirth
A variety of delighting sights; a smattering of happenings; a compendium of concepts…
1. Compose from my place of emotional vulnerability until satisfied.
2. Edit such that I like it sufficiently. (ideally, I would edit until I like it maximally, but 1. One can only do so much in limited time and 2. It’s better to edit something over multiple days than to avoid editing it altogether because I can’t make it maximally satisfactory in one.)
3. If it’s safe for public consumption, share it.
I daydreamed about her all day. She stood me up.
We agreed she would call shortly after 10pm. At 11:15, I call her. She says she’ll call me back by 1am. 2:52 and still no call.
I feel like a seventeen-year-old British woman out of Jane Austen, leaning on the windowsill, complaining to her cat:
And I told him, too. I told him I’d be gazing wistfully, like all the proper ladies do in the books. He must have known he had my heart to break.
He broke a promise. He tallies his emotional work of writing a letter at more than my hurt feelings. What price would that fetch for half of me?
The breakage will heal, but in a hard and crusty scar that prevents the next lover going so deep.
We must inform him it hurts my future husband and me, and insist he be more careful with hearts in the future.
This post was inspired by the song Mis, sent by my friend Omri. What song would you want me to write on? Link it in the comments.
This song is hilarious.
Funny bits:
Hey, you beautiful animal,
I come and help you,
you are in danger.
Hey, you all just want your fur,
and whoever sells it fast,
yes that’s unfortunately true.
Wir müßen den Fuchs häuten!
The humor has concluded. You may now laugh.
If you enjoyed this piece, please like it or leave a comment. It helps me know what to write.
“Thwack!” goes my head, pummeling the van door.
See bright spots of light. Can’t balance no more.
Closed out my phone call, “I love you. Uh, bye.”
Stumbled to my knees, my head hanging high.
Called my chum Em’ly, the reason I’m here
Coordinated as if drunk on beer.
“I’ll call you in ten,” she said and hung up,
so I wondered whether I was wrung up.
Am I concussed? I had seen stars. And my
neck mashed. From whacking it hard and uh, high.
Big ol’ thwackin’! A painful a-whackin’!
I pray the world fades not to, uh, black, and
but if it does, at least I’d’ve learned… Not
much of anything. An accident turned
me into a grave. A silly way to
die. In future, I’ll be A-More-Aware-of-Surroundings Guy.
The boat I would get, if I wanted a boat, would be everything that I am not.
Carefree and easy and flexing completely, withstand wind and rain and hot,
Skating along atop cresting blue waves, easing through shifting tides…
The boat I would get, if I wanted a boat, would not take me for a ride,
but summon me near, caring not if I come, chuckling and holding the ropes.
The boat I would get, if I wanted a boat, would dash dreams in favor of hopes.
“You’ll never go far with that kind of boat”
But I’m already too far, too fast.
The boat I would get, if I wanted a boat, would be one that my soul cries would last.
Days turn to weeks turn to months turn to years,
Then one day my boat turns on me
And I’d be its ears.
And it be my eyes.
Together, we’d share a mouth.
We’d turn, heading down, past the capes with a frown
To the warmest of waters due south,
Under the bridges of eyes and sand ridges, I’d sweat hard, shoveling coal
And my boat would tell me, “You’re working too hard. Where are we trying to go?”
I’d poke my head up, consumed in the clouds, and not help but utter an, “oh.”
Julian Wise 