HEY! Get, get, get, get over it!

Bingieboey was a prophet when he sent me this song.

Make you sick, make you ill,
makes you cheat, slipping change from the till.
Had it up to the gills,
makes you cry while the milk still spills.
Ain't it just a bitch? What a pain, well it's all a crying shame.
What left to do but complain?
Better find someone to blame.

Get over it ~ OK Go

The PrinciPLE is your PAL

I've discovered that some situations are not salvagable. When the truth rears it's impossibly ugly head to reveal only fact. Not truth. You just gotta decide the terms of your existance and bloody move on. Make your choices, swallow the shit, shooth your shins you decided to kick and then walk on.

But for the moment, your anger descends on the existance of this green earth. Let it hail, it will lighten up later.

So make a decision and be consistent about it. Pray that you have the strength to live with yourself after.

consistency, consistency, consistency. Keeps you high and dry.
And is the principle.

Gladys: so my final conclusion is that being principled is not altogether good, it becomes self-righteouness.

Mel, smoke up a chimmey (no really please don't, it doesn't work), while I lie bleeding on the floor.

So today I have to deal with this, progenitorial inconsistancies and a hacking cough.

Party it up folks!

Give me one more chance
And you'll be satisfied
Give me two more chances
You won't be denied

Well my heart is where it's always been
My head is somewhere in between
Give me one more chance
Let me be your lover tonight


You're the real thing
Yeah the real thing
You're the real thing
Even better than the real thing
Child...

Give me one last chance
And I'm gonna make you sing
Give me half a chance
To ride on the waves that you bring

You're honey child to a swarm of bees
Gonna blow right through you like a breeze
Give me one last dance
We'll slide down the surface of things

You're the real thing
Yeah the real thing
You're the real thing
Even better than the real thing
Child...

We're free to fly the crimson sky
The sun won't melt our wings tonight

Oh now...here she comes

Take me higher
Take me higher
You take me higher
You take me higher

You're the real thing

Even better then the real thing ~ U2

Deej's coming, then Sue.
Mummy Daddy please?

2 puffs of a cigar on tuesday and I'm still incapacitated

There is nothing better then knowing that you're loved, trusted and wanted.

Thank you to you all.

But I will not hesitate to add that although there is nothing better, it is still not enough.
No fault of anyone's.
We're finite.

I unicycled today. I want to do this more often then not.

I got a question...

Where are you?

Keep trying, and maybe you'll convince someone other then yourself. You have an amazing knack for refusing to know yourself, or listen to the convictions that lie in your gut and in the people around you. But no matter, I admire you for your grit and resolution. Steadfastness might well be your middle name. But keep riding, keep pressing on, keep running the race that we were called to run. Just make sure you're travelling in the right direction.

Because if you aren't, no amount of steadfastness, resolution or grit will get you to where you want to be. But then again, the earth and all that is in it is round, reflecting the completion of yin and yang. So maybe you'll run your race, the long way round and find yourself where you ought to be, and rejoice. Or maybe you'll run the long way round and find yourself where you ought to be, too late, and still, in the wrong direction. Inversing the world around you. Would you be happy then?

Oh whatever, I have no say in this. But when has that ever stopped me?

I will love you, till they take my heart away.

Thanks Tristan,
you really make my dreams come true.

And while i'm busy scrambling to pick up the pieces of my broken heart, I don't feel so alone. Thank you too Belmont.

I am suddenly very afraid.

Shield me.

You know you're overtly emotion when you start tearing to Paul Brandt's Convoy because you miss the west too much.

I says Pigpen this here's the Rubber Duck
We just aint gonna pay no toll
So we crashed the gate doin' ninety-eight
I says Let them truckers roll, ten-four

Coz we got a mighty convoy rockin' thru the night
Yeah we got a mighty convoy aint she a beautiful sight
Come on and join our convoy aint nothin' gonna get in our way
We gonna roll this truckin' convoy across the USA

Drat hormonal cycles.

it's 4.20 in the am and I really need to sleep cos ive got a bloody long day tomorrow that ends with me singing a lot. but I can't. Cos some canine is barking it's weeny little lungs out and God help me as I devolve into a vicious little bitch myself.

I hope Mr. pup-pup gets rabies and chew's Mr Owner's legs off.

On a seperate note, I'm wondering where I went. The Hannah that found simple joy in reading political philisophy and finding God between the fine lines of the print. My life was simple then, and I only had one vision: Self-betterment, intellectually, academically, spiritually and emotionally. And all is/was going well until I hit Singapore, again. There is something oddly numbing about my existance here.

And I think I know what it is: Sin.

Sin, being a lack of will, the dissolution into a messy mass or a massy mess that cannot take form or make force. The sin of, not so much a particular action, but sin as i understand it to be, a state of being. I am here I am now. I pay no regard to authority, I read poetry during Sunday sermons and I swear. A lot. Stopping these things will not slove my issue of Sin, but solving my state of being will stop these issues.

But I am here and here am I, is that a cop out?

To a different tune, The Wellspring, a collection of poems by Sharon Olds is beautiful. I picked up the book finally (8 months overdue) and savoured each character on the rusty yellow pages. A gift from Hannah Greenspan, my housemate of 4 months in 4822 Chancellor Blvd, it trickled back memories of strange days. The days apart are always strange. In Canada or in Singapore, I'm always standing on one side of the mirror, staring quizzically into the depths of my reflection on other continent. I usually am left with a curious feeling in the pit of my stomach that signals confusion and amusment.

Curtis spelt it out best. We grow in each space, and time is disjointed for us.

It's 4.30 am now, dear God and dear Dog, grant me some rest.

His father was a drinker
And his mother cried in bed
Folding John Wayne's T-shirts
When the swingset hit his head
The neighbors they adored him
For his humor and his conversation
Look underneath the house there
Find the few living things
Rotting fast in their sleep of the dead
Twenty-seven people, even more
They were boys with their cars, summer jobs
Oh my God

Are you one of them?

He dressed up like a clown for them
With his face paint white and red
And on his best behavior
In a dark room on the bed he kissed them all
He'd kill ten thousand people
With a sleight of his hand
Running far, running fast to the dead
He took of all their clothes for them
He put a cloth on their lips
Quiet hands, quiet kiss
On the mouth

And in my best behavior
I am really just like him
Look beneath the floorboards
For the secrets I have hid

John Wayne Gacy jr. ~ Sufjan Stevens

Back from Tom's Palette with the usual crew plus plus.
Back from a bible study on singleness.
Back, at night, in the dark.
Back.

And I am seeing beauty, and darkness.
Twisting like 'long' and 'feng'.
In my relationships.
In my roles.
In you.
In me.
Here.
Now.
I
am
needy
needed
wanting
more
then
due
or
I
.
.
.