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You're right-censored to me.

Posted 03-17-2009 at 05:26 AM by sweetiepie
Updated 03-23-2009 at 04:51 PM by sweetiepie

My dear phd is finishing her dissertation on a new algorithm to minimize bias due to censoring. When she does, I'll likely never see her again. Never know when she marries or dies or what. Okay. That's not necessarily true, but, it won't be the same. It's not even the same now. We had a little something.

The moon is getting empty again, these days, it gets full so fast, and empty just as fast. I have so little to do, but I can't get it done. 1000 pages and I still have 800 to go. Jobs, jobs, but not a drop to drink. It's the girls and even the guys. I've never had half so many friends. So deer are they each. The antelope in the yard around my heart are looking more and more like albatross, gliding lazily in the city aether, their feathers heavy with the painful regrowth in their branches and leaves, blooms, the brutal force of April is what keeps us all from ever sleeping a good nights sleep. Angie and me, head to toe, profiled in the blaring light of suicide, I darent touch her bloom, her never ending process of blooming, a moebius strip. I should have bought Sarah a daffodil today. We had a loverly day. We cuddled instead, which was no doubt enough. Enough what? Enough heaviness. They called me the hyacinth girl.

I can't study with fleeting heaviness gelling my brain. I can't dream without it. Around the black hole of my studying, my galaxy twists like a conch shell. Outward, I plod and plot with wax and painfully secrete. The secrets stir, a clear unguent covers the morning grass and in my hair and eyes. The same stuff that coats the moon in angry coffee cloud sorrow.

Concordance:

Plan 1. The story about the twin paradox, spiders, and the lady of the red nebula.

Plan 1a. The newspaper rose and the empty box of chocolates.

Lady 1a. Ghost. My port of entry. My port of entropy.

Lady 1b. I will refrain from calling her pussy. Her laugh inhales me. Simple and sure, she waits for me on a rock looking at picture books. A Lithuanian mermaid with a penchant for pleasure. I sail in her direction; I do not think I will make it. The tides are strong but the wind is stronger. I want happy memories from her, all bundled together like a stack of dry wood, cured to burn cleanly so that the flue of my heart, my aorta, will not become any more clogged.

Lady c+ and Lady c-, knows and knows not how to cuddle and laugh during sex. Knows and knows not where the heart lies. Knows and knows not how to lie, and how to lie perfectly still. Knows and knows not the secrets of her body. + has a bunny in her yard right now, had an owl there two weeks ago; - had a torn plaster body in the woods beside her tower. Probably left behind by some crazy art student. One knows a woman (or a sweetiepie) by the creatures that lurk in her yard.

Plan 2c+, I'll draw her she'll draw me, we'll play doctor and diagnose each other into doing all the things we wish we did.

Plan 2, Alex and I are digging our way to China with a web-page about goal achievement. This is the face of the shadow that the atheists forever chase in Dante's Inferno. It is the face of a clock. It is only different in that it's honest about being empty.

Theorem 2: The full moon is the only honest moon. Corollary: Truth is one in thirty. As rare as a haircut.

Plan 1,c- Tea beneath the mouse shaped shadow in the moon. She is cowardice in the face of nihilism. A shipwreck in stop time. A bad cold, nevertheless. I'd bang her in a bell tower.

Plan 1,c-,c+:That is not the moon, that is the sun crying herself to sleep. Does Bob Dylan have a best song? Or are they all isometries? Does it go down like whiskey down your soul? It burbled as it came. How do the ladies come?

Plan 3: Detour. When love disappoints, abstain from sex until you're dry as a Mormon.

Lady d-,d+: Sweet oils brushed with your fingertips off the bottoms of blossoms in early spring, like how leaves crack like ribs in late fall. Breath in the city lights. Breath them out. Shake them. Listen to their rattle. Then drink them down.

Plan 3d- (c-,c+): Drink before sex. Pray after sex. Hard and soft. Let hang the censer from the bottle.

LadyAngelPlan1a: Please let me have her. Please let us be waiting for each other when the tempest of life passes and we each stop spinning. Let me find her full blooded or just thinning in a parlor, long as the day. Let me have her, or some reasonable facsimile. Not marriage, necessarily, we could just float on our backs together, on the largest of the hairless waves, just for a minute, which is the same after all, (see earlier blogs) as a lifetime. Afterwards we can come back to shore, the water around our ankles, and never and never and never see each other again.
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  1. Old Comment
    This is a great post
    Posted 03-17-2009 at 03:51 PM by
 

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