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Air in the spare
Nov. 9th, 2003 07:40 pmThere's a little red line on my map of the US that goes from Seattle to Olympia, across the bottom of the Olympic Peninsula and up to the forest before it gives up and heads for the ocean. I've now officially been in a car across the entire country, almost totally diagonally. All I need is air in the spare, baby. (That's a modification of my original 'all I need is a bumpy road and a pair of tight jeans, baby' from when we were in Missouri.)
Yes, I've been to the Pacific Ocean and it was everything I wanted it to be. I wanted to remove my clothes and lay on the rocks; to be cut by the barnacles and be purified by the air. I wanted to remove all the blood in my body and replace it with the water that was crashing on the rocks and slipping up the sand to greet my shoes. I've never seen a landscape where humans seemed so irrelevant.
Jeff has a less emotional recount of the events. My pictures are in the usual place. It was so beautiful it made my skin hurt. I wanted to steal a Douglas Coupland line, to rip out my eyes and slit open my stomach and cram that beauty inside me.
The lady in the convenience store kept peeking out the window. ("I think she's been hitting the espresso." "Yeah, or the meth...") "I'm hoping that the moon will come out, but so far it's just Mars." (When we get outside Jeff will squint up at the sky and say "there it is. There's Mars." but I won't believe him because I know that Mars is the red planet.) We wonder why she wants to see the moon but a little farther up the road we notice that it's a funny color and obscured but in a suspicious way. We don't think it can be an eclipse because neither one of us has heard about it and we couldn't both have possibly missed such news. But of course it is an eclipse and this seems perfectly natural to me. Something of profound cosmic importance happened out there on the beach and it's only natural that the moon is responding. We are her children, after all, and she loves us.
Ok, ok, I'm waxing melodramatic again. Yesterday was nearly perfect, a small moment of intense flaring beauty in the darkness of everlasting and I think that deserves a little melodrama.
I've been switching back and forth between reading Cosmo and reading Scientific American, and I'm going to put my geek hat on for a second. There's an article about quantum theory and I was thinking about how I've always thought 9 dimensions were all that were needed to square the equations of large-scale physics within a world made of quantum fuzzies. But the title of the article had something to do with 11 dimensions and I was wondering if maybe another two would have to be added in order to include the possibility of inter-dimensional movement...in order to access the multiverse. I wish that I didn't get all muddled when I try to do the math. I'm just not smart enough to be a physicist, I guess.
Today has actually been a nothing day, recharging my batteries. I was supposed to do laundry, but I didn't. Instead, I went downtown and developed some pictures, spent a ridiculous amount of money on hair products. (Boys, write this down: we spend way more time, effort, and money than we'll ever admit devising clever ways to get you to touch us.) I came home and tried on my dresses, which is something I do when I've not been paying enough attention to how I'm dressing; when I'm living in jeans. I wish that I was able to be as cavalier as Gwyneth is about being small-breasted. (That sounds like I'm digging for reassurance but I'm not. It's just the truth.) But what came as a total surprise to me is that my co-workers are right: I have a pretty good ass. So that was cheering.
I got an email to my KotaPress address from a girl who evidently harassed her boyfriend to write her poetry and he finally did, but she doesn't like it. She wants advice on what to do. I'm not sure what to tell her, never having been a girl who wanted boys to write her poetry. (In point of fact, I was always a girl who wanted boys to write her letters, but that's neither here nor there.) I feel kinda bad for her, but advice column is not in my job description.
I'll let you all be now.
You are Arthur Rimbaud - a vital, cannon-changing
poet with a flare for tantrums. You tend to
write in a fever, and have a liking for the
disordered mind. Do't expect people to
understand you, for you are ahead of your time.
Which Dead Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Shit, yeah.
Yes, I've been to the Pacific Ocean and it was everything I wanted it to be. I wanted to remove my clothes and lay on the rocks; to be cut by the barnacles and be purified by the air. I wanted to remove all the blood in my body and replace it with the water that was crashing on the rocks and slipping up the sand to greet my shoes. I've never seen a landscape where humans seemed so irrelevant.
Jeff has a less emotional recount of the events. My pictures are in the usual place. It was so beautiful it made my skin hurt. I wanted to steal a Douglas Coupland line, to rip out my eyes and slit open my stomach and cram that beauty inside me.
The lady in the convenience store kept peeking out the window. ("I think she's been hitting the espresso." "Yeah, or the meth...") "I'm hoping that the moon will come out, but so far it's just Mars." (When we get outside Jeff will squint up at the sky and say "there it is. There's Mars." but I won't believe him because I know that Mars is the red planet.) We wonder why she wants to see the moon but a little farther up the road we notice that it's a funny color and obscured but in a suspicious way. We don't think it can be an eclipse because neither one of us has heard about it and we couldn't both have possibly missed such news. But of course it is an eclipse and this seems perfectly natural to me. Something of profound cosmic importance happened out there on the beach and it's only natural that the moon is responding. We are her children, after all, and she loves us.
Ok, ok, I'm waxing melodramatic again. Yesterday was nearly perfect, a small moment of intense flaring beauty in the darkness of everlasting and I think that deserves a little melodrama.
I've been switching back and forth between reading Cosmo and reading Scientific American, and I'm going to put my geek hat on for a second. There's an article about quantum theory and I was thinking about how I've always thought 9 dimensions were all that were needed to square the equations of large-scale physics within a world made of quantum fuzzies. But the title of the article had something to do with 11 dimensions and I was wondering if maybe another two would have to be added in order to include the possibility of inter-dimensional movement...in order to access the multiverse. I wish that I didn't get all muddled when I try to do the math. I'm just not smart enough to be a physicist, I guess.
Today has actually been a nothing day, recharging my batteries. I was supposed to do laundry, but I didn't. Instead, I went downtown and developed some pictures, spent a ridiculous amount of money on hair products. (Boys, write this down: we spend way more time, effort, and money than we'll ever admit devising clever ways to get you to touch us.) I came home and tried on my dresses, which is something I do when I've not been paying enough attention to how I'm dressing; when I'm living in jeans. I wish that I was able to be as cavalier as Gwyneth is about being small-breasted. (That sounds like I'm digging for reassurance but I'm not. It's just the truth.) But what came as a total surprise to me is that my co-workers are right: I have a pretty good ass. So that was cheering.
I got an email to my KotaPress address from a girl who evidently harassed her boyfriend to write her poetry and he finally did, but she doesn't like it. She wants advice on what to do. I'm not sure what to tell her, never having been a girl who wanted boys to write her poetry. (In point of fact, I was always a girl who wanted boys to write her letters, but that's neither here nor there.) I feel kinda bad for her, but advice column is not in my job description.
I'll let you all be now.
You are Arthur Rimbaud - a vital, cannon-changing
poet with a flare for tantrums. You tend to
write in a fever, and have a liking for the
disordered mind. Do't expect people to
understand you, for you are ahead of your time.
Which Dead Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Shit, yeah.
