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Sally Forth and get funky. Rex Morgan M.D. funky.

Toot Toot. Open wide. The Update Train is a-coming!

Marshmallows, Pixies, and Jug Bands all a-mingling together.

To The Hip-Hip-Hippity-Hop!

Olly-olly-ox-in-free!

2003-07-29 - 12:43 a.m.

Marshmallows, Pixies, and Jug Bands all a-mingling together.

It is oh-so late as I just finished work, but the urge to update grabbed ahold of me with its greasy paint-covered hands and try as I might, I couldn't squirm away. So here I sit, powerless, a slave before Diaryland and my soul's stubborn insistence that he/she needs to talk into the microphone. So step into the spotlight, inner self. (I apologize in advance that this entry will fail to deliver any explanation for my month-long absence, and perhaps I should just unhook the weight of that promise from around my neck and ever so daintily cram the bulk of it under the door? Whaddya say? I think it makes a great door stop.) And now that I've given my ignored promise a decorative purpose it no longer feels neglected and promises* to immediately stop singing "I'm Henry the Eighth I Am" in tawdry Whoopi Goldberg style.

*Can a promise even make a promise? (Here I will fight the urge to go a-tripping down tangent lane about paradoxes and negations and depersonalized license plates.)

Testing. One. Two.

There's nothing really pressing that I have to say. My inner self (while determined to show his/her face) seems to be content with merely making funny noises into the mic. Vrooooooooooom. (Race Car.) Aaaaaa-OOOO-gaaaa. (Boat adrift in fog.) Ching-chong-CHANG. (Pot falling down the stairs.) And so it goes. When words fail resort to noises, and when noises fail, resort to second rate expressions. Tonight I feel neck-deep in black dirt, all fertile and wanton and covered with the squirminess of life. I want to stretch my field of vision out on a canvas until it pops white, and then I want to sketch out crazy curly-cues and finger-vines and other swirling patterns of existence. My realization that it's all an illusion and that I am forever pinned underneath a bell jarred societal bubble, coupled with the rainbowed light of sun on glass and the giddiness of twirling-in-place dizziness. Freedom. Can you smell it? It's like rotten apples and sunscreen. Wet leaves and rubber. There's a crack in the foundation and I can see God. (He's playing Operation with a unicorn and a Snork.) It's magik and mystery and fruit punch and licorice. A dash of little-kid swirled with adult and simmered down to a nice thick sanity sauce.

It is the dropping of the seven veils. One long Jesus-moment. It just, is. (With maybe a capital "I".)

Is.

And so the night yawns before me, a black kitten-mouthed promise. A moment, a bag full of earth, and as I sit here, I think that sitting still may be what my life should be all about.

Because it's only when I sit still that I ever really dance.

--The Fanged Faerie dances so slowly you can hardly tell she's moving.

 

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