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mood |
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music |
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sometimes you make me feel like i'm living at the edge of the world |
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Stuff. And also, things.
+ I slept poorly last night. This is a crappy way to start the week, lemme tell you. And it is still too freaking cold to sleep on the LIRR.
+ Already in (email) conversation today, I have quoted Jeremy Goodwin* and big gay (totally not dead) Larry**. this pleases me.
+ I started writing a story last night that is supposed to be tiny and humorous, and meh, I do not like it at all. It's not funny and it's not interesting. Meh. It's a lot of blah blah blah, as you know, Bob, and that is just bad. It's a funny concept! I just haven't figured out how to make it work. I have other wsip to work on in the meantime.
+ Lastly, my copy of Crush arrived, so I typed this up, since I couldn't find a full version of it online:
Driving, Not Washing
It starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same
running from something larger than yourself story,
shoving money into the jaws of a suitcase, cutting your hair
with a steak knife at a rest stop,
and you're off, you're on the run, a fugitive driving away from
something shameful and half-remembered.
They're hurling their bodies down the freeway
to the smell of gasoline,
which is the sound of a voice saying I told you so.
Yes you did, dear.
Every story has its chapter in the desert, the long slide from kingdom
to kingdom through the wilderness,
where you learn things, where you're left to your own devices.
Henry's driving,
and Theodore's bleeding shotgun into the upholstery.
It's a road movie,
a double-feature, two boys striking out across America, while desire,
like a monster, crawls up out of the lake
with all of us watching, with all of us wondering if these two boys will
find a way to figure it out.
Here is the black box, the shut eye,
the bullet pearling in his living skin. This boy, half-destroyed,
screaming Drive into that tree, drive off the embankment.
Henry, make something happen.
But angels are pouring out of the farmland, angels are swarming
over the grassland,
Angels rising from their little dens, arms swinging, wings aflutter,
dropping their white-hot bombs of love.
We are not dirty, he keeps saying. We are not dirty...
They want you to love the whole damn world but you won't,
you want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath,
who knows what to do with his body, with his hands.
It should follow,
you know this, like the panels of a comic strip,
we should be belted in, but you still can't get beyond your skin,
and they're trying to drive you into the ground, to see if anything
walks away.
~Richard Siken
So very Sam/Dean. Sigh.
--
* "...A full house. Dan already folded the 6 you needed and I have the other one. You don't have a house of any sort. You don't have a pup tent. You've got trip-7s and I have a straight. I want you to trust me right now. I want you to say to yourself, 'Yeah, I've dated a string of jerks in my life. They were stupid, they were mean to me, but maybe this one's different. Maybe I should take a chance and not adopt the break-up-with-him-before-he-breaks-my-heart strategy.' I want you to remember that when I started liking you, I didn't stop liking tennis. And I want you to know that I don't think there's a woman in the world that you need to be threatened by, no matter how glamorous you think she is. But mostly, I want you to trust me, just once, when I tell you that you have three 7s... and I have a straight."
**"This is our year, I'm telling you. Best football season ever. I'm so in shape, I'm a rock. It's all about egg whites. If we can focus, keep discipline, and not have quite as many mysterious deaths, Sunnydale is gonna *rule!*"
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/89275.html.  people have commented there.
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