backlash bonne fete
happy birthday to me. I am twenty-three on T3s.
(I should probably quit the rhyme right about here; I imagine it would turn out badly.)
I am actually on T3s right now though, given to me in prescription form by a new dentist. That and some anti-inflammatory pill which is enormous, red and yellow. this whole thing started with a toothache and now I am sitting here, bloated on one side of my face and in pain, on the eve of my anniversary and the advent of shira, princess of power.
timing is everything; perhaps this will be the inscription on my other foot.
its strange. I can remember my twenty one (forever young) very clearly; it was charged, it was change. twenty two was in two languages & I don't know what it really was trying to say, as a year in a life. new, confusing, half-verbal, I sort of stumbled through it. half-fluent about where or who I was.
existentialism to the max. pardon me, but I am on T3s.
The other day richard bars wrote me an email that was very symmetrical. I often wonder about the order of things, like he does. how words and items and people and things on a list will stack and prioritize themselves in an inner-hierarchy, chain-of-events, working itself out darwinian style. you know, those people, occasions. incidents. affairs. experiences.
then bam! chalk another year of life and reflect upon it.
---
it is a little pathetic that I am sitting here, high on T3s and red and yellow pills, blogging. there are definitely more important things to write at this point, but I am blocked. bloated and buoyant on foreign chemicals. jaw clenched, bun high, enclosed in dark and warmness of my place in montreal, I embrace a lucid evening turning into twenty three. I have decided to, momentarily, "fuck the backlash" but I know I will get back to it.
Is productivity even possible on T3s? non.
--- -- ok back to it.
tomorrow's my party; a party sobriety.
-
--
---
----
-----
------
-------
--------
---------
----------
-----------
------------
-------------
--------------
---------------
----------------
-----------------
------------------
-------------------
---------------------
---------------------
bisoux, the birthday girl.
post script:
my mother just told me the greatest story of my very own birth.
apparently, after a full night of no sleep and full-on contractions I came into the world at 10:01. this I knew. what I didn't know is that, once out, all the nurses stopped their tracks and commented to my exhausted mother that I was acting like a babe who had been out at least two weeks in the world; that I was aware of everything. for my brother and my sister (and many babies, I am told) there are lingering moments in a newborns disposition signaling great discomfort and annoyance to be out of the warmth of the womb. not I.
(I should probably quit the rhyme right about here; I imagine it would turn out badly.)
I am actually on T3s right now though, given to me in prescription form by a new dentist. That and some anti-inflammatory pill which is enormous, red and yellow. this whole thing started with a toothache and now I am sitting here, bloated on one side of my face and in pain, on the eve of my anniversary and the advent of shira, princess of power.
timing is everything; perhaps this will be the inscription on my other foot.
its strange. I can remember my twenty one (forever young) very clearly; it was charged, it was change. twenty two was in two languages & I don't know what it really was trying to say, as a year in a life. new, confusing, half-verbal, I sort of stumbled through it. half-fluent about where or who I was.
existentialism to the max. pardon me, but I am on T3s.
The other day richard bars wrote me an email that was very symmetrical. I often wonder about the order of things, like he does. how words and items and people and things on a list will stack and prioritize themselves in an inner-hierarchy, chain-of-events, working itself out darwinian style. you know, those people, occasions. incidents. affairs. experiences.
then bam! chalk another year of life and reflect upon it.
---
it is a little pathetic that I am sitting here, high on T3s and red and yellow pills, blogging. there are definitely more important things to write at this point, but I am blocked. bloated and buoyant on foreign chemicals. jaw clenched, bun high, enclosed in dark and warmness of my place in montreal, I embrace a lucid evening turning into twenty three. I have decided to, momentarily, "fuck the backlash" but I know I will get back to it.
Is productivity even possible on T3s? non.
--- -- ok back to it.
tomorrow's my party; a party sobriety.
-
--
---
----
-----
------
-------
--------
---------
----------
-----------
------------
-------------
--------------
---------------
----------------
-----------------
------------------
-------------------
---------------------
---------------------
bisoux, the birthday girl.
post script:
my mother just told me the greatest story of my very own birth.
apparently, after a full night of no sleep and full-on contractions I came into the world at 10:01. this I knew. what I didn't know is that, once out, all the nurses stopped their tracks and commented to my exhausted mother that I was acting like a babe who had been out at least two weeks in the world; that I was aware of everything. for my brother and my sister (and many babies, I am told) there are lingering moments in a newborns disposition signaling great discomfort and annoyance to be out of the warmth of the womb. not I.
posted by Loco at
8:41 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home