Zooming zoom and booming boom … riding the big-world whirlybird.
I enjoy deviation from the either/or, a clash of titans, a blend of realities, a dreamscape, September. I enjoy the research, the chase, the thrust and parry. I enjoy the expansive microcosm.
Holy balls, been gone awhile now, haven’t I? Lotta things I want to post but … have to chill on. Put ‘em on ice and haul out for reanimation later cos w00t! cryogenics! (Maybe I’ll unfreeze Timothy Leary’s head while I’m at it. Maybe Timothy Leary’s unfrozen head would like to come hang out at my house to keep the cats company while we’re all out at work or school and chastise the bad cat when he neatly arranges himself on a placemat on the kitchen table [because if there's one thing that cat can't resist it's an area, a neatly delineated area. I love how he carefully origamis himself up to fit precisely onto the dropped shirt on the floor or the folded afghan on the sofa arm.]). Maybe I’ll do a whole post on severed heads. Altho someone else has already done this awesome one and how could I ever compete?: Some experiments with severed heads. Or maybe I’ve linked to that before. Fuck, I don’t know. But y’all are big grown up people, so, y’know, deal. Love ya.
I think I think too much about clothes — mine, yours, his, hers, theirs, whoever’s. Because really? I think an awful lot about them. Like, an AWRFUL lot. Thing is, when the world is being beautiful, I don’t want to be a blight on it and when the world is being unbeautiful, I don’t want to add to the ick, so I end up thinking a lot about my clothes. And in my thinking, I also think this: I think style is an act of generosity. I think fashion is just merchandising. I think one is qualitatively superior to the other, by a lot, and in my mind it’s clear that the superior one is style.
The world spins on its axis, on and on and on, no matter who comes here or leaves here, no matter how happy or sad you are, no matter, no matter.
If you’re a bling-averse ladyperson like me, then you don’t give a fiddler’s foxtrot about jewellery and have spent precisely zero time in your life thinking covetously about shiny, sparkly gems.
I don’t know why I always want to know “why” but I do. Even when the answer to “why?” is “because” or “dunno” or “what’s it to ya, mofo?” Even then, I still wanna know. Why, I wonder. Why am I like that? Dunno, really. Because, I guess. What’s it to ya anyway, mofo?
I went to Ikea a couple of weeks ago with my friend Allysun. It was delightful, as trips to Ikea can be when you’re not there to make some big significant purchase (cos let’s face it, there’s more than a little truth to the old “Ikea: Swedish for ‘Out of Stock’” joke.) But this was a fun outing, no pressure, just cruise around with a friend, have a yammer, and enjoy the Ikean spectacle.