Neko

 

 






†HAMLET†


SHAKESPEARE


†Ophelia†
There is a willow grows
ascaunt the brook,
That shows his hoar
leaves in the glassy stream.


Therewith fantastic garlands
did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles,
daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give
a grosser name,
But our cold maids
do dead men's fingers call them.


There on the pendant
boughs her crownet weeds
Clamb'ring to hang,
an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy
trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook.


Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like
a while they bore her up;
Which time she chanted
snatches of old lauds,
As one incapable
of her own distress,
Or like a creature native
and indued unto that element.


But long it could not be
Till that her garments,
heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch
from her melodious lay
To muddy death.



layout by soulkarma

What does it really say...
07.30.07 (4:09 pm)

What does what I watch on television, listen to on my iPod and read really say about me?

I have to admit, there was a time when I would have said nothing really.  I was about 10, 11 years younger then.  Ah, youth.  Just convinced that I was who I was and nothing external could influence that...

But go just a wee bit crazy once and all of a sudden you begin to analyze these things a bit more.  Actually, I probably went that wee bit crazy becasue I was a bit of an analyzer in the first place, but that's not what this blog is about... so I digress.

I like things on the dark side.  Music, literature, humor, film, sex, cereal - the darker the better. 

Now, listen freaks, I said it, I like those things dark, but I like them REALISTICALLY dark.  Bukowski dark.  Waits dark.  Hunter S. Thompson dark.  Please keep your Insane Clown Posse's and Vampiric lifestyle's out of my daily dose of reality.

Again, I digress.  Am I attracted to Thompson and his flights through the desert at high speed sucking on tanks of nitrous while furiously avoiding any monstrous bats that might come his way because in some way I already relate to his (R.I.P.) mindframe, or because the first time I read his work in Rolling Stone, I knew I had to have more? 

I don't think I was thinking anything other than, "that's a fucking kickass song," the first time I heard Rod Stewart sing Tom Traubert's Blues, and after checking out who wrote it, realized that Jersey Girl and a host of other's were also penned by Waits, knew I had to own this man singing his own material, in his own voice.  FUCK.  There is just nothing else like it on Earth.  Everything wrong about his instrument makes the music and the words right.

Bukowski - Jesus.  It's like the set up to a joke... Jesus walks up to Charles Bukowski at the bar... I am sure the punch line would be Bukowski telling Jesus to go fuck himself - and to have another drink. 

I don't think you can get any more real than these three.  Any darker.  Every day they live(d) with a knowledge of how going just a wee bit crazy can turn those big dreams into small hopes, and every day tasks into wondrous accomplishments to be celebrated.  That's darkness.

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Men will be Boys
07.30.07 (3:29 pm)

Boys pretending at being men... or something like that. I attract them like moths to a flame.  Live with your mother?  Emotional age of 16?  Need to borrow money?  Still in love with your ex wife who you met in high school?  Hey!  I'm single!  Let's go out.

I need to get some things straight first.  I will not - under any circumstances - let you move in with me.  No ring, no house.  It's mine.  Allllll Mine I tell you!!!!! MINE!  MUAHAHAHA!

Still with me?

Okay, you will be expected to pay for at least half of our dates.  You want to go to a football game or moto-cross and it is not your birthday?  Yeah, you are going to tote that bill buddy.  The Cheesecake Factory and tickets to Rent are on me.

Stopped shaking yet?

No pictures of the ex hanging anywhere - that includes mom and dad's house.  Yep, I said it.  The wedding photos have to go.  They can at least put the photos of the big-eyed waifs, and dogs playing poker up when I visit.  Your tacky ass wedding photos can go back when I leave the door.

Almost done.

Borrowing money.

Let's just not.  You need a lung?  If your immediate family isn't a match and we're sleeping together, I'll get tested, but money is a whole different matter.

Last, but certainly not least, you shall not speak her (the last ex) name in my prescence after - oh let's make it an even four dates.  I have no problem with talking about histories, it's the dwelling I take issue with. 

There, that didn't hurt so bad - did it?

0 Comments
 
Men will be Boys
07.30.07 (3:28 pm)

Boys pretending at being men... or something like that. I attract them like moths to a flame.  Live with your mother?  Emotional age of 16?  Need to borrow money?  Still in love with your ex wife who you met in high school?  Hey!  I'm single!  Let's go out.

I need to get some things straight first.  I will not - under any circumstances - let you move in with me.  No ring, no house.  It's mine.  Allllll Mine I tell you!!!!! MINE!  MUAHAHAHA!

Still with me?

Okay, you will be expected to pay for at least half of our dates.  You want to go to a football game or moto-cross and it is not your birthday?  Yeah, you are going to tote that bill buddy.  The Cheesecake Factory and tickets to Rent are on me.

Stopped shaking yet?

No pictures of the ex hanging anywhere - that includes mom and dad's house.  Yep, I said it.  The wedding photos have to go.  They can at least put the photos of the big-eyed waifs, and dogs playing poker up when I visit.  Your tacky ass wedding photos can go back when I leave the door.

Almost done.

Borrowing money.

Let's just not.  You need a lung?  If your immediate family isn't a match and we're sleeping together, I'll get tested, but money is a whole different matter.

Last, but certainly not least, you shall not speak her (the last ex) name in my prescence after - oh let's make it an even four dates.  I have no problem with talking about histories, it's the dwelling I take issue with. 

There, that didn't hurt so bad - did it?

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Jobs
07.30.07 (3:08 pm)

I work no less than 4 jobs and still live below the poverty level.

What is that you say? Wal-Mart employee? McDonalds? Perhaps a janitor?

Oh hellllll no.

I am a museum curator. Adjunct faculty member at a 4 year University. Work part time programming music and laying out ads for a local radio station/entertainment newspaper and work at the circulation desk at the Uni library.

Holla!

I would make more money if I quit these jobs and worked as waitress at TGIWHATEVER's.

I know - it's how I put myself through grad school...

Kids, if you are out there, get a safety degree or a degree in business. Forget about doing something that makes you happy - make a ton of money, retire in 20/30 years, then make yourself happy. Peace out.

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Jake
07.30.07 (3:02 pm)

Okay, so it's been a while.

Here's an update.

Never trust a Nazi vet. Jake has been resting peacefully now for some months. He died shortly after that last veteranarian visit where I was told there was nothing to worry about. Sure, there was nothing to worry about unless I didn't want my FREAKING PET TO DIE. Fucking Fuckers.

Needless to say the other animals won't be going back to that office - uh, like - EVER.

Anyway, after a reasonable amount of time I welcomed what I thought was an adorable little 9 week old dachsund into my home. Unfortunately Sophie has turned out to be the Ebil Spawn of Satan, Pup of DOOM! Yes, she can out run a Persian snup in nothing flat, likes nothing better than to chew on flip flops til she makes them her bitches, and then, in the ultimate act of EBIL, she partakes of the spawn's sacrament - cat poop.

No wonder the Mug and Skitty look at her like excrement. If she ate my poop I would do the same. The problem is, that between these moments of insufferable misery, she looks at me with pitiful brown eyes that say, "love me MAMA..." It's only later when those same eyes are saying, "feed me bitch," do I realize how far I am into the game to far to get out...

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