19 February, 2006
ginger and cinders

i was just thinking... since i, like many, have a hard time making time for words... and, because you've got to live the "thing" to be able to write about the "thing"... maybe there's some little .exe file out there, somewhere, that could monitor our pulse? so people we know through a monitor might know we still have one?

I'm surprised i didn't hear MrCheney cough when i typed that.
because, i bet HE know! dontcha, Baby?

i can verify that the blood still pumps, willingly... even after walking on a ledge for awhile, aided and abetted by NickHornby. five twelve-hour-days+(plus) in a row, as the Lithographic House Of Usher disingerates into corporate bile: spitting out long-term employees like ossified little watermelon seeds.

"ahhh... fugyuh... uh, fugyouverymuch."

the best part of all this entropy, i suppose, is that when the charred walls fold in on themselves, i can bolt for escape carrying only my own weight... and keep heading in that same direction.

end, of the Fire & Brimstone.

i take a deep breath after i re-read that... and up from the bubbling crude of my cranium blorts the melody of MaryMacGregor's 1976 dreary-as-tuberculosis hit, "Torn Between Two Lovers". "...feelin' like a fool"... written by PeterYarrow (of Peter-Paul-Mary). that explains everything. has-been folkie discovers coke. thick, nasty sap ensues.

anyway, it ain't like that.

Sunday. a long way to go, and a short time to get there. now, if i can get my toasted brain to co-operate.

...since it managed to lose a dozen sugar cookies, in this house, somewhere...

...but managed to remember this:

Gütenberg, the Father of Printing, is spinning in his grave... fast enough to bore a hole in the box. i hope the takes out that fucking dog-man whiles he's at it.

.