2002-04-30 - 8:07 PM
The Lost DVD Remote (Off The Tangent)
I've come back with more scrawls etched into my notebooks, some good and some bad. But eh, whatever. It's what I wrote, and you can't blame yourself for writing something you felt.
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I see her darkened figure in an hourglass / telling me time has passed / 'cause when the moonlight...drapes the walls / I know that it has been too long /// Since I've been in your eyes / like an Indian summer, your heat / should rise, not fall like autumn / It's clear, that I hoped your passion would stay, and never leave ///
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I'm daring to be daring with you. Caring for me is nothing comparing to you.
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It's hunting season, and soon I'll be calling you dear.
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Isn't it surprising? The temperature's rising, and here I am, falling for you.
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she exacted her magic like a voo doo priestess...what must i do to seize this...please this woman...comin' from the drum of the earth...between north and south like birth...cloud burst of cirrus...cumulonimbus and stratus...nimbostratus and cumulus...what should i do with this...overbearing love that's molding on my inside...folding on the tinside of an empty "can"...'cause i can't decide on when or where to release this cayenne pepper shaking up within me...the salty taste of her moist lips on mine...the joint vibing of our minds on lines adjacent to each other...like the stutter after stutter that i utter when she's by me...
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I'm twirling my pen while waiting for you.
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Too many ways to follow the sky / there's something about the clouds, that make me feel so bright / I kind of wish that I was alive / So I could take in everything there is, worth a price / You were once while I was twice / I thought I could share it all with you.
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Perfection is something we cannot have. Something someone made up to make us feel bad.
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Relaxing on a bench, with a phone up to her ear / low-cut khaki shirt, pressed black capris / confused by open-toe sandals with four-inch heals / smoldering heat as hot as could be / I thought the gesture would get me to wave / I was wrong / So she got up and walked away / When you miss your chance, / you hope to God you could get it back.
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Nothing like being blind when the sun is out. Nothing like being born in a car crash. And there's nothing at all like loving you. Except if you were loving me.
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What do writers do when words can't explain?
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Love is wandering around, wondering what the other is doing, when you're not wandering together.
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There's royalty in the words that you speak / things that make me feel like a king / things that make you seem like a queen / I'm feeling flush while we just dealt the cards / How hard will it be for royalty?
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Recreation - camcording. Listening to some anonymous person's radio. The heat's got me wishing that I lived outside. It's so nice out.
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often, i fear of the skies...afraid of flying high...the season is gone, i am allowed to go home...go home...the talkers that talk, the walkers that walk, and the birds that sing all too much better than i can...hummingbirds and swallows...making the earth dance...and i want to follow......and the moon swings low...never high with the tide...my emotions follow...hummingbirds and swallows...i want to find a way home...away home...so i wish that i could fly...and not be afraid......and willows weep...where pillows sleep...where the hell has springtime gone...it has gone...somewhere tucked behind the horizon...where each distance gets greater with time that surpasses...colors spilling over grassy glasses...i never planned on this......the moon swings low...never high with the tide...my emotions follow...hummingbirds and swallows...i want to find a way home...away home...so i wish that i could fly...and not be afraid.....i wish that all of this was not on my mind...
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The teacher somewhat nonchalantly said, "Women are more apt to speak about their feelings, while men tend to hide everything on the inside." I was then deafened by the collective 'mmhmm' of the females. I would've spoken up against that generalizing statement, but I didn't want to be the one to bring it up.
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He had a very soothing voice; a hint of his previous tongue accented on his softspoken words. He had the type of voice you wanted to hear at bedtime, lullabying the "happily ever afters", ushering in your sleep.
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^ Well, that's what I had in me notebooks. Umm, I have this long piece about Newark and my family living there before my time and about Newark in general, but I'll leave that for a later entry. For now, I have to do some work and e-mail some people. I've restarted the chain of e-mails between me and Elaine - remember? The ones that sort of started this journal in the first place. So perhaps I'll cut and paste some highlights of my e-mails in here, or perhaps not. Sometimes we gotta keep some things private. Ironically, this is a journal (albeit online). But yeah, I should go now. Happy camping, sailors! And a woo woo woo to Saturday morning cartoons!
P.S. I can't find my damn DVD remote.
