Dear Diary,
Boop Boop.
Here comes the bus, all on their way to blue-camp, on board!
Blues camp. Aah. Bluey.
So, what is newly wistful, NOT according to grapevine, but rather to the meanderings of my wandering mind, is that ever-lasting love seems to be a myth, all those songs, movies and paintings are talking about a different sort of love, not necessarily the kind that procreates.
What a shame. Someone ought to tell St. Valentine, he's shooting at futility.
Sorry Chub - True Love's an outside joke now. EVERYONE cheats.
The kind of love that begets bouquets, jewellry and sweetheart candies, begets also (frightfully), tears of the deepest emotion (fear) and makings of the weakest bonds (marriage) isn't the one they're yodling about. Sad but true.
ON any other occasion prior to this point of my existence, I would've taken it personally, but then why should I?
What has love given me? What has love done for me? What have I learned from my experience in love?
Calculatable
I'll tell you what - I've learnt that the world is round and it'll revolve around any goddamn piece of haphazard emotion you ask it to revolve around. I've learnt that it'll keep on revolving no matter how much you want it to stop and/or go the other way.
I've learnt that expectations have a HIGH price. Not metaphorically even, literally.
It costs a lot to be in love. The expensive nightware itself....ahem.
So since I'm not the self-proclaimed protector of the idea of love, ought I fight for it?
What's to fight for? Nothing as far as clear sight can see. Nothing as long as I'm standing with feet planted firmly on the revolving earth.
If I were depressed enough I'd say something random like, geez it's so depressing this mythically shrouded, over-wrought quest for sex, um, Love (I mean), it, it...it makes me wanna turn Japanese! I'd say "The Japanese, yeah they have it right. No sex, no drugs, no wine. What's the point really - being a pursuant of flimsy goals like love? Bah. Half-assed ideas propagated by candy-flauss headed media personages.", that's what I'd say if I were half as decently depressed as I ought to be.
So, what is it? Is it coz we've gotten too dull for it? Too normal for it?
It must be the 'normal' in us normal folk.
(And the important question to ask here is who put the normal back in the folks?)
You know what our problem is - we don't aim to be bigger than life.
That's our problem - no ambition and we choose not to believe in the impossible.
Shot thru and thru
Sure, there's such a thing as unconditional love - there are "people" who offer those services. No price tags, no strings. Just restraining orders keeping them away.
Foo to restraining orders!
Triumph real love! They're the real go-getter types, these unconditional love providers.
And whaddayaknow, they go unappreciated.
Foo to chains that bind us so, I say. Yo, you with no discretion or taste in the opposite sex, Foo! Foo to you.
Hmm. Yeah us normal folk tend to be too cynical about these things.
Restraining orders and Stalkers. Brrr.
Things like that are scarry to us. Positively chilling.
Too downright dark-blue, infact.
Who was it that said blue was the color 'neath every good beatnik's black?
I can't remember. I hope you can't either. (que: rambleblog)
So I'm being sarcastic and bitter and what am I doing to change that?
Drinking.
Well on my way to solving problems with my alcohol-inducible skills.
Alcohol rocks. It shakes ground, makes the color mix and is apocalyptic sometimes.
Hell yah! Screw the blues!
If you drink enough you believe in the powers that be.
I believe. The Truth is out there. I believe.
Something bigger is out there. It ain't love - but there's something looming at the curb.
Tonite, I'm taking a chance, I'm taking the bus to 'reality' and hitting downtown with a venegance. I'm running in the opposite direction. I'm taking the road less travelled. I'm painting the town another color - a random, non-sequitur color like acid green or jelly-bean yellow.
Mmm. I'm looking forward to it. Tonight the world gets thrown up into yellows and greens.
Vital colors. Of every throw-up.
And while I'm at it maybe I'll stumble into the shadow of my newest looming paranoia and look up and with eyes barely dancing, I'd acknowledge it.
No ascetic life for me, na-uh!
Epicureans rejoice, here comes another.
So I'm not turning Japanese tonite baby. The Vapors may sing it till they keel over - but no siree fred, I'm not turning Japanese today. No Japanese turning on agenda.
I might be psyched-out lonely, borderline whacko, and have really small, unoffensive, japanese-looking eyes (courtesy pollen), but no Japenese-morphing tonite. Nay.
So say it with me, Foo! Japanese monikers. Foo! Itchypunk. Foo! Godzilla. Foo! Pokemon.
Ok, no foo Pokemon. take back. Pokemon cute. Coo Pokemon.
Whilst we're "hovering" around the topic - I'd like to clear up any misunderstandings one might have about a dearly beloved movie character - Oren Ishii. She was kick-ass. Also, not Japanese. No Foo-ing her. Woo. Hoo. For her.
Turning Samurai
