pop life

it's a little exhausting, there's this list of things we never did, and i'm liking the idea of doing them before the year is out, but there are only 363 days left and there's never enough time in the day...i have these large ideas to move around in a small space, incomplete and disappointing icons of sexual energy in a gallery that is too small for my big thumb, a life of making art in a small studio space with people i haven't even met yet, some of whom are bound to be tall(ish), and an altar that holds the elemental forces of the universe.  it's a lot to carry, but that's my name, i carry the weight of the world over the river in the middle of a storm (and there are those other names, i can't talk about that here, sh, please, child, not here good lawd)...saturday is five years ago that the gods got born in my head, and this is the evening of my last bender 9 years ago, the one where i threw up blood during a rehearsal for a public art piece against that goddam sheriff...these things are all good portents, but look at the inside of my ribs, it's all covered with gravel from birds trying to scratch at my heart...these are all good portents, and what's worse is that everywhere i go i'm seeing evidence of the struggle between heroic epic love and couples who stay together but act like morons...i wish i could be undecided...today, jim was teaching a class in marketing, and pam was there, & he fell in love with her the fifth time he saw her, but she keeps swearing that she just doesn't give a fuck...and then rachel is talking to ross again, but neither of them thinks it has to mean anything, except he can't sleep because he keeps thinking about her all the time, and even worse than that is how ted keeps writing about robin in his status updates, and sometimes robin likes them, and it's very confusing, and ted is worried that he might look like a fucking idiot (he does), but he also thinks this might be epic and heroic (it is)...and then, at the end of all that, there are all these people singing about living poor in france with english accents, except for the jewish guy, who is french for some reason, and my favorite part comes when the french prostitute (the one who does not look french or english, you know, the hottie) gives her life for love, even though the guy has too many freckles and cannot grow a beard...at the end of the day, i have to understand that it's going to be me, dying in a church, with my daughter and her new love (i hope he/she does not have so many freckles, i mean, please, adults? you know?) by my side and the french girl with the nice eyes is singing to me from beyond the grave...except, i hope she does not purse her lips and say god, but something else entirely, something like "orisha" or "cuban cigar" or "french tickler" because otherwise i'm not sure i'd go into the goodnight singing, but apparently we don't have to sing well when we die, the dying is more important...and i suppose it's only reasonable that the desire for a tragic and epic love seems suspicious, and not necessarily the best invitation for a simple little game of chess (there are two important things to keep in mind: it's played without clothes, and i don't know how to play chess, you would win)...but...i am dark, darker than i thought, and am apparently happier to have a love i can write about than one i can live in...the day to day would drive me insane, unless there are a lot of extra people milling about, or perhaps if it smelled wonderful and pleasing...i could probably be lulled into a mundane and vapid love if there were the right smells, but all of this smells a little funny, and that weaving woman by the sea, looking at me like that, she is suspicious of me, but she doesn't know i'm just as suspicious of her, there's something important that she's not telling me, and i suppose it's ok if i never know what it is...she probably forgot to put her contacts in and thinks i'm someone else, and i'm better off not knowing about that, because that would be a disappointing way to open up a new fucking year.  


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