thinking of the sweetest kind

I split my time between thinking and doing. I fell asleep reading philosophy. I'm quite content to stare out of the bus window while listening to Meatloaf. All of this is good.


I just want to feel
                     more.

Things on the horizon 

linger without having happened yet.

A lot of thoughts swim through this mind. The body of a girl, on the cusp of twenty-five. Lipstick makes more sense. There's a sensuous blossoming that occurs at twenty-five; one that grows through the bangs cutting and wedged boots and mini skirts.

I really liked you.

I think about the relationship that Yeats had with Maud Gonne and wonder if this is all a cycle. If we are set to repeat the same thing over and over again.

On a friday night  I sit at home and eat pizza. I watch several films on Netflix. I am gonna use that shit up. $7.99 a month. I will watch a movie every single night. 

I feel stuck. There are a lot of eyes "I's" in this post. In most of my posts. Write about the subject you know best. Self. 

Sometimes I feel so mean, like a person filled with spite and hatred at things that are not worth such spite and hatred. For example, I find myself being increasingly critical over my roommate and her lack of attentiveness to cleanliness.

I hate most men.

I hate most women.

I don't like many people. I would like to like them. 

Friday nights are weird.

So is this post. I don't care.

I'll write the PC stuff: I want so badly to rewrite pretty little things into a movie. I wish I could be working only on that. I see it in my mind so vividly. And yet, I cannot bring myself to write it. 

Tomorrow I will dance. And ride my bike along the beach. And maybe set my goals on several things I have wanted to do and will likely only do one or two of those things. The weekends move so fast.

Soon I will visit the Vineyard. This may be the final voyage for some time. I will dance there. Cranberry bogs there. I will revisit you. And what happened. And why things ended the way things ended.

Or maybe I do not have to think about it so heavily.

I'd like to cut some strings off. Linger in my own free stringing place. 

This post has little to say about art or dance.

Do I have anything to say about art or dance?

What is the privilege of the written word?

Or the articulation of a thought?

Who gets to say authoritative, declarative theories about art and dance and life?

Does it matter, anyway?

I think this is all I will say.

But I will end with a poem:

dizzy tripping

i want to sing all night with you

and when our feet grow cold

or the night grows old

we'll run until the sun grows

(by mwest. 2008)