On Life and Love
Whatever is making or breaking my day.
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“Big chop”
I did it. I cut off all my hair. All of it. It’s pretty butch, no lie, but honestly, I love it. It’s so easy–I couldn’t get closer to “wash ‘n’ go” without shaving bald (and that’s higher maintenance in frequency of cutting). WO did all of the cutting for me, and the poor guy winced as he cut off each plait. He was so attached to those things. By the time we got down to the clippers, though, he was good. Right now, I don’t plan to let it grow out. I’m liking it short, and I’m not much for wearing a fuller afro.
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Moving and shaking me
Who’s moving and shaking me? [tag]Jack McCarthy[/tag]. [tag]Rachel Kann[/tag]. [tag]Michael Guinn[/tag]. [tag]Carlos Andres Gomez[/tag]. How and where? Indiefeed: Performance Poetry (podcast). Gomez’s “Daddy’s Girl”. McCarthy’s “The Whole Chalupa”. Kann’s “Words Fail Me”. Guinn’s “Beautiful”. McCarthy’s “Cartalk: A Love Poem”, “A Modest Proposal”, “Drunks”, “Substances”, and “Cartalk II: Catholics & Carthieves”. I don’t know that I can successfully comment on each poem and how each has affected me–most floored me, some made me choke back tears, some (especially McCarthy’s) made me laugh while hitting the truth dead-on. Performance poetry is relatively new to me, and I’m hungry for more. Suggestions and links are welcome. Gomez’s “Daddy’s Girl” was the first I…
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Am I still the same?
As an underclassman in high school, whenever people were insulting or cruel to me, I would spend a decent amount of energy devising a perfect cutting revenge. Something short and usually based upon very personal, embarrassing/shameful details they’d told me. I’d wait until they’d forgotten about their transgression (not long, for 15-year olds), then remind them casually and right in public of their dog-fucking habits or of the collection of child rape porn they were hiding on their parents’ computer. I developed a nice style, I think. Pleasantly inquisitive, smiling all the while. I don’t do that so much any more. I never figured out why people still confided in…
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The noise of the night.
It’s late and I’m up all by myself, reading Christopher Golden’s The Gathering Dark. I have the living room all to myself, and I’m able to blast music (through headphones) on repeat without fear of my SO being disturbed. No singing and dancing, but I’ll settle for volume. My soundtrack for the night–as it has been for the last several days–is a set of BollyWood tracks from a podcast I’ve started listening to. The ‘cast is hosted by two folks that sound like 12-year olds with crushes on each other, but the music is amazing, and there hasn’t been a song they’ve played that I haven’t liked. I’m so restless…
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Midnight linkage
The size limit on fame » From negrophile, this is an older article, but definitely worth a read. It’s up for debate whether the author has a valid point, though, although at a glance I tend to believe his evidence. I don’t keep up with American Idol at all, though.