kiya

I seem to have borrowed gwynyth's superpower for a moment. Someone posted asking for information about birds in Egypt (historical, but modern-day info might be worth the effort), and I went on a rummage, and found The Web Site of the Egyptian Birding Community. How cool is that?

Lessee. What's up in reality? I have made cookies with rosefox and sinboy, and engaged in mild gaming geekery and borderline-consensual disco-related masochism. Cooooo-kieeee. I have been to Very Dangerous Bookstores. (The one we were in today had a couple of titles in the science section that just cried out to be made into band names, but unfortunately we didn't have a writing implement to note them down with.) I have been reading about tattooing and sociology and refining an idea for a tat image. I have developed Significant Religious Theories.

I have had important and relevant conversaions with brooksmoses and we have snuggled much. I think we may wind up being okay.

I expect to cocoon until it's time to go home, working on healing, making okay lasting.

This schizophrenic machine played Roxette's "You can't put your arms around what's already gone" and followed it up with Boston's "We can make it".

Make up your feathered mind, bit-box!

Anyway. tiassa was talking about bad teenage poetry in the context of one of those regular rant subjects. (Well, poetry and stuff like this, for sort of useful cognitive dissonance.) Which got me on poetry a bit. (Why is it that reading badly composed free verse inspires in me an urge to write poems structured according to Very Strict Rules? Is this just a bit of really unsubtle contraritude?)
( Sanity cut for *strictly structured* angst poetry. )

So. Thing. I have committed pantoum.

I thought my week was improving.
( More pointless whining. )

I can't find my Hitchhikers' Guide scripts, which is a shame; there's a Marvin speech I want to quote.

Hah. Okay. And I found the book I was looking for earlier, too.

Googoogoogoogoo. Ddddddrrrrpp. Errrrrrrrrk. Zootlewurdlezootlewurdlezootlewurdle. Fringggggg.

F...f...f...f...Fact! I ache, therefore I am. Or in my case I am therefore I ache. Oh look - I appear to be lying at the bottom of a very deep dark hole. That seems a familiar concept. What does it remind me of? Ah, I remember. Life. That's what lying at the bottom of a deep dark hole reminds me of. Life. Perhaps if I just lie here and ignore it it will go away again.

Or then again, perhaps not. To be perfectly frank with myself, if it didn't go away as a result of me falling fifteen miles through the air and a further mile through solid rock I'm probably stuck with it for good. Why don't I just lie here anyway? Why don't I climb out? Why don't I just go zootlewurdle? Does it matter? Even if it does matter, does it matter that it matters?

Zootlewurdle, zootlewurdle, zootlewurdle. . . .

(The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, radio version, Fit the Eleventh. By Douglas Noel Adams.)