Friday, 30 July 2004
Move Over DNC!
You've had your fun, now it's time for...DISPATCH!!! Who's excited? Oh, you know we are! Can't wait for the road trippin', slide-groovin' beat of this weekend! Not looking forward to the traffic, and hoping that it won't rain tomorrow. But, I am excited beyond belief!
Tuesday, 27 July 2004
And one more for the road.
I think what makes this article so funny is not the story, but the response of the staff member at the Conservation agency..."Bugger that, I'm going home." Classic.
27 July 2004 - News Posts
This gives me mixed feelings...
They claim the idea is not to make fun, but to challenge the media's persistent adulation of stick-thin women. However, Yahoo has placed this news item in the "Oddly Enough" section of its site, and the fact that they weigh the women while they're onstage is reminiscent of a sideshow atmosphere. Why not just have this competition without emphasizing the weight of the contestants?
...but this gives me hope...
Who would have the moral fiber to do such a thing? Someone already well off, perhaps, or comfortable financially. Not even to take the money and donate it, but just to send it along, with a note...wow. I mean, raised-eyebrows, vacant-stare wow.
...and this just makes me hungry for croissants.
Finally, a quick alternative to greasy fast food...and all you carb dieters beware!
They claim the idea is not to make fun, but to challenge the media's persistent adulation of stick-thin women. However, Yahoo has placed this news item in the "Oddly Enough" section of its site, and the fact that they weigh the women while they're onstage is reminiscent of a sideshow atmosphere. Why not just have this competition without emphasizing the weight of the contestants?
...but this gives me hope...
Who would have the moral fiber to do such a thing? Someone already well off, perhaps, or comfortable financially. Not even to take the money and donate it, but just to send it along, with a note...wow. I mean, raised-eyebrows, vacant-stare wow.
...and this just makes me hungry for croissants.
Finally, a quick alternative to greasy fast food...and all you carb dieters beware!
Monday, 26 July 2004
0106 Hours
1:06
Red skirt white shirt blue-black bra
smooth legs make my sleep easier
the skirt helps me dream in beauty
or maybe just feel soft blankets
for someone who covers up so much
I uncover my skin
Dig until I infect
worry until I convince myself
fake and walk a line I
Did you think I couldn't spy
confess I wouldn't protest it's just
I talk to much for you
myself to listen to cut & dry
1:11
I rewrite the worlds I
didn't help to create. So easy,
I have it; my lies are hidden.
Books will burn before my trials
see the light of day.
The shutters are always up.
Dance for the audience of
night owls and perversity.
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Quatorzains never seem to realize they have nothing on quintains. <-- More Poems
I Lie With My Hands
Electrical girl, energy jumps...
fuck you
...between us, can't you feel it?
It's never been like this
with anyone else.
Fuck you
Must be the love.
"He said you had this way...
fuck you
...of moving your hips"
He fell in love and "you were
out of this world..."
He had it so bad...
Fuck you
...that you cue this song.
I had to invite you to my...
fuck you
...bed; marathon convections and I
skinned my knee, first blood.
Fuck you
Would you believe he loved
so strong, so scared to say...
Fuck you
Pinned you down, grabbed your...
fuck you
...hand, guided it lower
not so drunk, cold with power
Lips pressed too hard...
Fuck you
I lie with my hands.
Love you, love you.
Chemistry flows
from me out to the wide...
fuck you
...world of people who fall
Such an ugly word
so very many wicked phrases
the faces that we make
when we
Fuck
you
when we say
Love you
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
You prefer Erato to Polymnia? You are dead to me!
fuck you
...between us, can't you feel it?
It's never been like this
with anyone else.
Fuck you
Must be the love.
"He said you had this way...
fuck you
...of moving your hips"
He fell in love and "you were
out of this world..."
He had it so bad...
Fuck you
...that you cue this song.
I had to invite you to my...
fuck you
...bed; marathon convections and I
skinned my knee, first blood.
Fuck you
Would you believe he loved
so strong, so scared to say...
Fuck you
Pinned you down, grabbed your...
fuck you
...hand, guided it lower
not so drunk, cold with power
Lips pressed too hard...
Fuck you
I lie with my hands.
Love you, love you.
Chemistry flows
from me out to the wide...
fuck you
...world of people who fall
Such an ugly word
so very many wicked phrases
the faces that we make
when we
Fuck
you
when we say
Love you
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
You prefer Erato to Polymnia? You are dead to me!
Friday, 23 July 2004
Grrr!
I had this whole post ready to go, and I tried to publish it, and the site crashed or something, and I lost it. And now I'm not in the mood to rewrite it. That makes me so annoyed! Oh well, what can you do?
Friday, 16 July 2004
Photos Standing Proud!
Woohoo!! The hummingbird goes bucknutty supplement is up and running! See if you can find the not-at-all hidden link on this page, which will lead to another page, which explains ('cuz I know you always wanted to know) the title of this blog. So, go wild!
Too Right
From the What Animal Are You? Quiz
Meerkat
You’re cute, you’re furry, and you hang out underground. You look like a cross between a kitten and a monkey. And um…you’re weird. It’s not your fault or anything, and it’s not actually a bad thing – you just march to the beat of a different drummer. You’re a creative critter -- you don’t act like the rest of the mongoose family with the noctural hunting and all that. Just like you don’t necessarily do whatever your friends may do. If they all jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, you probably wouldn’t jump, but probably because you’d be too busy freestyling or making origami swans out of magazine covers. Keep doin’ your own thing, Meerkat!
Meerkat
You’re cute, you’re furry, and you hang out underground. You look like a cross between a kitten and a monkey. And um…you’re weird. It’s not your fault or anything, and it’s not actually a bad thing – you just march to the beat of a different drummer. You’re a creative critter -- you don’t act like the rest of the mongoose family with the noctural hunting and all that. Just like you don’t necessarily do whatever your friends may do. If they all jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, you probably wouldn’t jump, but probably because you’d be too busy freestyling or making origami swans out of magazine covers. Keep doin’ your own thing, Meerkat!
Thursday, 15 July 2004
Photographie
the photo
has her trapped
in a trance
its subjects
mummified
in wedding attire
their grins
their eyes
half-wild;
faces frozen;
embalmed with makeup
and so much hairspray
this image is not even
the core
of human-onions;
the layers have
covered
past imperfections
interactions that
made them decide
to grow together,
thinly meshed,
with the smell
of home
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Feel that tingle creep up your spine... <-- More Poetry
has her trapped
in a trance
its subjects
mummified
in wedding attire
their grins
their eyes
half-wild;
faces frozen;
embalmed with makeup
and so much hairspray
this image is not even
the core
of human-onions;
the layers have
covered
past imperfections
interactions that
made them decide
to grow together,
thinly meshed,
with the smell
of home
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Feel that tingle creep up your spine... <-- More Poetry
I can make you smile...
This is unbelievably amusing. I am proud to say that I remember all of my nights, and that my first instinct upon locking myself out of some car, is not to steal another car.
Tuesday, 13 July 2004
Thoughts From Pinhale (Espirito Santo do Pinhale, BRAZIL)
30 Mai 2004
Fireworks from the church down the road from my hotel (I think) that has been broadcasting their evening service. Whistles, explosions, and smoke have everyone running to the myriad balconies that line this street. Yesterday, at the Opcao restaurant kiddy-corner from our hotel, we were accepted into this multicultural, blended family. The Japanese-born, Portuguese-speaking four-generational Taguchis, and their various spouses; the Italian Paco and the Brazilian Chico. Daniela and Chico's children, Fernanda and Carlao, are beautiful, with Asian features, perfect moon faces, and an inimitable medium skin-tone. We watched videos of the two sisters' weddings, and it made me think. They seem so happy, even now, years later. D. & C. have an enormous house, with a gorgeous porch built by Chico and helpers. A pink, wooden playhouse with a yellow roof shares space with a large in-ground pool, gardens all around with exotic-looking flowers. Red, half-moon tiles for the roof. A view of the town from 5 meters up. Built on a gentle hill like Vina, only smoother, with less twisting and jerking. It is my ideal house - or at least ideal porch. A full barbecue and sink with counter and cabinets; a bathroom and sauna, couches, table, chairs, and two linkable TVs. The Japanese-style rock and bush garden, the climbing icy, the green-tiled pool shower; these people live life in beauty and solidity. The dark-skinned babysitter (nanny) takes care of the kids, and I almost get disgusted with the parents until she leaves and it becomes apparent that she is not a surrogate, but a supplement. The three Taguchi siblings and two children crowd onto the plush sofa-combo, making such a calm, inspiring picture that I long to whip out my camera and capture their smiles, their ease, on film. Paco and his telephoto lens beat me to it, so I refrain. These people, this life, is beautiful. It makes me reaffirm these new sentiments. At times I don't know which will win: my restless soul or my love of people and desire for comfort.
I like this country: its weather, its friendly people, its mixed races and peoples, its music, its casual work and play. I'd like to live here. But I say that about most places I visit.
Fireworks from the church down the road from my hotel (I think) that has been broadcasting their evening service. Whistles, explosions, and smoke have everyone running to the myriad balconies that line this street. Yesterday, at the Opcao restaurant kiddy-corner from our hotel, we were accepted into this multicultural, blended family. The Japanese-born, Portuguese-speaking four-generational Taguchis, and their various spouses; the Italian Paco and the Brazilian Chico. Daniela and Chico's children, Fernanda and Carlao, are beautiful, with Asian features, perfect moon faces, and an inimitable medium skin-tone. We watched videos of the two sisters' weddings, and it made me think. They seem so happy, even now, years later. D. & C. have an enormous house, with a gorgeous porch built by Chico and helpers. A pink, wooden playhouse with a yellow roof shares space with a large in-ground pool, gardens all around with exotic-looking flowers. Red, half-moon tiles for the roof. A view of the town from 5 meters up. Built on a gentle hill like Vina, only smoother, with less twisting and jerking. It is my ideal house - or at least ideal porch. A full barbecue and sink with counter and cabinets; a bathroom and sauna, couches, table, chairs, and two linkable TVs. The Japanese-style rock and bush garden, the climbing icy, the green-tiled pool shower; these people live life in beauty and solidity. The dark-skinned babysitter (nanny) takes care of the kids, and I almost get disgusted with the parents until she leaves and it becomes apparent that she is not a surrogate, but a supplement. The three Taguchi siblings and two children crowd onto the plush sofa-combo, making such a calm, inspiring picture that I long to whip out my camera and capture their smiles, their ease, on film. Paco and his telephoto lens beat me to it, so I refrain. These people, this life, is beautiful. It makes me reaffirm these new sentiments. At times I don't know which will win: my restless soul or my love of people and desire for comfort.
I like this country: its weather, its friendly people, its mixed races and peoples, its music, its casual work and play. I'd like to live here. But I say that about most places I visit.
Monday, 12 July 2004
Seis Horas...Cont.
English attracts my immediate attention, though I try for a languid look rather than a sharp, ears-alert jerk of the head.
Taca takes off. I envy them. Five hours to go.
Lines make for strange bedfellows. Excited-looking middle-aged women, and some beyond middle age, dressed (as most women in Latin America so often are) in clothes designed for twenty-year-olds. A young mother in tight jeans (and the requisite stilettos) with a toddler in a lime-green playsuit, on a line harness. A business man mopping his flushed brow, jacket over arm. A man in light-gray and white. A succession of young women, of men in bomber jackets. I have switched sides and now face a nursing mother and a thirty-something man in basketball jersey and jeans. The ubiquitous mumbling voice mutters something terribly vital over the loud speaker. Of course, no one understands, or hears over the Asian gentleman on his cell phone. Couples of mixed heritage - most frequently latinas with Englishmen of Australian natives, remind me of ages-old interracial couplings of European men with indigenous women.
Sometimes, style is what demonstrates cultural heritage. Impossibly high heels, worn as if they were sneakers, tight, embroidered or be-ribboned jeans, fashion-forward shirts, the latest jackets, all belong to the latinas, who take their style from Europe, and are used to traveling in full makeup and mini skirts. Sneakers, comfortable leggings, jeans with wear-and-tear, denote less style-driven travelers. Men wear suits (business travelers), slacks and loafers (students or family men), or sports clothes. The hierarchy of luggage is prevalent among men. Backpack, over-the-shoulder bag, small rolling suitcase, and the coveted briefcase, all intimate traveler status.
Children make the world go round, but not today.
A young girl (around five) grows strong carrying her not-much-younger sister. Until she gives up and baby is transferred to Mom's arms. A three-year-old exclaims ay, caramba! in such a perfect imitation of her adult counterparts that they ignore her and keep on chattering.
I should be walking, but the curious eyes have me cowed - for now. Suspicious eyes, too: the security guards almost outnumber the passengers. Ever-present cleaning women polish already-shining floors, unearthing the tidbits of airport life. The walls in some parts (e.g., the restroom) are made up of thousands of rectangular cuts of rough stone. Some have gone AWOL from their sentinel duty, taken as souvenirs.
Colombia will not have given me anything physical, ticket stub aside. Not even a stamp in the passport. I had debated changing money, just to have some pesos, but I will save that for the return trip. I am fighting the urge to check for my gate, so I can escape this eavesdropping, spying existence. Or, more basely, for something to do. I curse my pencil's rapidly deteriorating lead. I will NOT check for a gate until 5:45. Perhaps I should have eaten outside the gate area, but who knew there would be only one small, mobile refreshment stand in here?
Moving sends pains along my tailbone...too much sitting. A change of seating and I can now be stared at by the nose of a plane. Having left my warm seat, I am struck with sudden chills. I figure all the people will think I am slightly off kilter, with my shoddy-looking bag, my shudders, my vague stare, my bizarre meanderings back and across the Great Hall. So much the better to be left unharmed. The plane emits gaseous brown clouds, abruptly and briefly, like puffs from an old steam train. Only one, though; an aborted journey.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I am fighting against sleep and for sanity. Not sleep so much as an apathetic coma. So it's true. Boredom is a killer. I wonder what will happen when I arrive, how customs will be, where whoever it is will meet me, sign in hand, Japanese or no in tow. I wonder if the myriad suit colors of the employees represent a coherent job structure, as marked as that contained in the spectrum of skin color in Latin America. The person behind the desk, guarding the boarding door, wears red. The walkie-talkies wear navy.
Can I check the gate yet? 5:40. Not yet. Still four hours to go. This must be what hell is like endless waiting, unable to eat or drink. Can't sleep safely, can't detach your damn carry-on from your arm. The kids are cute, loud, and energetic. I envy their energy. Of course, they haven't been here for four hours.
I'm hoping for a miracle; for an unsolicited, undeserved, very fortuitous act of fate. Better luck playing the lottery. I'm about ready to create a campfire using my Brazil Travel Guide book, hunt some wild birds, and go cavewoman in this airport. I'm just hoping my luggage won't be playing in the carousel for hours before I arrive in Sao Paulo. No, I'm not loopy at all.
We're well past the half-way mark now; three hours until I can board the plane. I realize I have finally lost it.
...
Took a break to draw something incredibly inane. I wonder if I can call with my credit card. I'd call home, tell them that Colombia is just one big airport where people ask me where Gate 4 is over and over again. Perhaps I'd call Mars. I am losing it. Still no gate posted. I debate crossing security lines to call, get money, restore my contact with humanity. Now I know what to do on my return layover: get some plata colombiana for show, buy a book and food, and hole up somewhere else. Sitting next to the plant does not make me breathe any easier. Let me stop. Please.
7:00. 19:00. Two-and-a-half hours to go. Sala 6. Puerta seis. Gate Six. I am hungry and so tired I am imagining moving spots. The entertainment on the airport's TV network was "Animals of the 21st Century", which included a monopod, hopping mollusk over 40 centimeters tall; carnivorous, sandpit-trap laying plants; gigantic (massive, dinosaur-sized) squid with hard shells that live in forests; and their enemies: smart, flexible cephalopods that - ready for it? - swing from trees like packs of howler monkeys. This is assuming 200 million years of evolutions. Oh, and these guys will live where London used to be. Well, it beats the vaguely pleading Latino band on right now. Yay AIR TV, right...
I'm still hungry. Before, I could have sworn that this black-and-white photo was moving.
How does this, or why does this, announcer sound excited about everything, such as arrests, announcements of who ordered the torture of Iraqi prisoners, etc., as if these were all games of fútbol?
Finally, 8:05, 20:05. snot-nosed kids are whining, mothers are snapping, and English-speakers have come to the gate - and gone. Anti-mule adds are everywhere on TV, in the bathroom, on signs in the Great Hall. Not anti-equines, but anti-drug trafficking.
Under an hour to go. I made it.
Fin Parte I / End Part I
Taca takes off. I envy them. Five hours to go.
Lines make for strange bedfellows. Excited-looking middle-aged women, and some beyond middle age, dressed (as most women in Latin America so often are) in clothes designed for twenty-year-olds. A young mother in tight jeans (and the requisite stilettos) with a toddler in a lime-green playsuit, on a line harness. A business man mopping his flushed brow, jacket over arm. A man in light-gray and white. A succession of young women, of men in bomber jackets. I have switched sides and now face a nursing mother and a thirty-something man in basketball jersey and jeans. The ubiquitous mumbling voice mutters something terribly vital over the loud speaker. Of course, no one understands, or hears over the Asian gentleman on his cell phone. Couples of mixed heritage - most frequently latinas with Englishmen of Australian natives, remind me of ages-old interracial couplings of European men with indigenous women.
Sometimes, style is what demonstrates cultural heritage. Impossibly high heels, worn as if they were sneakers, tight, embroidered or be-ribboned jeans, fashion-forward shirts, the latest jackets, all belong to the latinas, who take their style from Europe, and are used to traveling in full makeup and mini skirts. Sneakers, comfortable leggings, jeans with wear-and-tear, denote less style-driven travelers. Men wear suits (business travelers), slacks and loafers (students or family men), or sports clothes. The hierarchy of luggage is prevalent among men. Backpack, over-the-shoulder bag, small rolling suitcase, and the coveted briefcase, all intimate traveler status.
Children make the world go round, but not today.
A young girl (around five) grows strong carrying her not-much-younger sister. Until she gives up and baby is transferred to Mom's arms. A three-year-old exclaims ay, caramba! in such a perfect imitation of her adult counterparts that they ignore her and keep on chattering.
I should be walking, but the curious eyes have me cowed - for now. Suspicious eyes, too: the security guards almost outnumber the passengers. Ever-present cleaning women polish already-shining floors, unearthing the tidbits of airport life. The walls in some parts (e.g., the restroom) are made up of thousands of rectangular cuts of rough stone. Some have gone AWOL from their sentinel duty, taken as souvenirs.
Colombia will not have given me anything physical, ticket stub aside. Not even a stamp in the passport. I had debated changing money, just to have some pesos, but I will save that for the return trip. I am fighting the urge to check for my gate, so I can escape this eavesdropping, spying existence. Or, more basely, for something to do. I curse my pencil's rapidly deteriorating lead. I will NOT check for a gate until 5:45. Perhaps I should have eaten outside the gate area, but who knew there would be only one small, mobile refreshment stand in here?
Moving sends pains along my tailbone...too much sitting. A change of seating and I can now be stared at by the nose of a plane. Having left my warm seat, I am struck with sudden chills. I figure all the people will think I am slightly off kilter, with my shoddy-looking bag, my shudders, my vague stare, my bizarre meanderings back and across the Great Hall. So much the better to be left unharmed. The plane emits gaseous brown clouds, abruptly and briefly, like puffs from an old steam train. Only one, though; an aborted journey.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I am fighting against sleep and for sanity. Not sleep so much as an apathetic coma. So it's true. Boredom is a killer. I wonder what will happen when I arrive, how customs will be, where whoever it is will meet me, sign in hand, Japanese or no in tow. I wonder if the myriad suit colors of the employees represent a coherent job structure, as marked as that contained in the spectrum of skin color in Latin America. The person behind the desk, guarding the boarding door, wears red. The walkie-talkies wear navy.
Can I check the gate yet? 5:40. Not yet. Still four hours to go. This must be what hell is like endless waiting, unable to eat or drink. Can't sleep safely, can't detach your damn carry-on from your arm. The kids are cute, loud, and energetic. I envy their energy. Of course, they haven't been here for four hours.
I'm hoping for a miracle; for an unsolicited, undeserved, very fortuitous act of fate. Better luck playing the lottery. I'm about ready to create a campfire using my Brazil Travel Guide book, hunt some wild birds, and go cavewoman in this airport. I'm just hoping my luggage won't be playing in the carousel for hours before I arrive in Sao Paulo. No, I'm not loopy at all.
We're well past the half-way mark now; three hours until I can board the plane. I realize I have finally lost it.
...
Took a break to draw something incredibly inane. I wonder if I can call with my credit card. I'd call home, tell them that Colombia is just one big airport where people ask me where Gate 4 is over and over again. Perhaps I'd call Mars. I am losing it. Still no gate posted. I debate crossing security lines to call, get money, restore my contact with humanity. Now I know what to do on my return layover: get some plata colombiana for show, buy a book and food, and hole up somewhere else. Sitting next to the plant does not make me breathe any easier. Let me stop. Please.
7:00. 19:00. Two-and-a-half hours to go. Sala 6. Puerta seis. Gate Six. I am hungry and so tired I am imagining moving spots. The entertainment on the airport's TV network was "Animals of the 21st Century", which included a monopod, hopping mollusk over 40 centimeters tall; carnivorous, sandpit-trap laying plants; gigantic (massive, dinosaur-sized) squid with hard shells that live in forests; and their enemies: smart, flexible cephalopods that - ready for it? - swing from trees like packs of howler monkeys. This is assuming 200 million years of evolutions. Oh, and these guys will live where London used to be. Well, it beats the vaguely pleading Latino band on right now. Yay AIR TV, right...
I'm still hungry. Before, I could have sworn that this black-and-white photo was moving.
How does this, or why does this, announcer sound excited about everything, such as arrests, announcements of who ordered the torture of Iraqi prisoners, etc., as if these were all games of fútbol?
Finally, 8:05, 20:05. snot-nosed kids are whining, mothers are snapping, and English-speakers have come to the gate - and gone. Anti-mule adds are everywhere on TV, in the bathroom, on signs in the Great Hall. Not anti-equines, but anti-drug trafficking.
Under an hour to go. I made it.
Fin Parte I / End Part I
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