So, I was home sick yesterday with a rather sore throat. It was a pretty crappy day, actually. Between fits of coughing, cherry popsicles, and movies too cheesy for their own good, I spent most of the time crying over unimportant things, and then getting mad at myself for it. And mad at other people too. For being mad at me.

Somedays I don't understand.

I wrote a huge poem, too. Y'know...sitting in your room, being sick, writing 14 page poems, like you do...It was awesome.

"What, like a hot dog?"
"Like ten billion hot dogs, sir."

(Eddie is always helpful when life needs some perspective.)

I like making new friends. I like being able to get to know people, to dig them up and discover things and interact and laugh and share and joke and explore. I like to be obnoxious with people, or whisper things in the dark. I like a sense of similitude in the incidents of stranger-danger.

I didn't bring the notebook with me, because I figured typing out a 14-page poem would be a trifle more conspicuous than I usually can afford being at work. Perhaps if I can scrounge up a couple bucks to refill the scooter tank, then I will saunter down to the university library later, and type it up there. There are some lines I remember, because they worked so well in my head:

she's a girl back from danger.
crops her dark hair short
so that less of her has to frown
when someone gets hurt.

...

the smell of coffee is geography.
he drinks his coffee and his dreams.

...

how did Samson pull down the temple
standing eyeless, saying: 'let me die with the Philistines.'

did he pull the pillars in like a last love,
or push them away from him
to be alone in his dying?

...

Narcissus was so much in love with himself.
only a fool doesn't realize
he loved the river too.


I was proud of it. For its rawness, I think. "Mistakes are spectacular and / simple as life, as death / as the arithemetic books / of small children." that bit was in there, too.

I don't want this to go fast. I don't want to look back and wonder about the way I went. But am I going anyway? What is going? What is wanting things? I don't know. Something about moments.

Something about letting the unimportant things slip away.

And I was slipping.