oh ‘fear_flour’… no sooner blown, but blasted :-)
To admit that this was an awkward week is much like washing your hands after using the bathroom, or ensuring that your brown belt matches your brown shoes.
Well, more often than not, I wear black shoes; and for the life of me, I can’t seem to find my black belt. So the visible absence in the daily rant is a bit of a relief for those among us who find this type of “over-sharing” a bit awkward.
The fact that the word “awkward” was used two times in a paragraph, three times in a single blog entry, and four times in the same week is unacceptable. Creativity be damned.
Well… having looked the good little smurf face to face in the mirror and had the commensurate break-through that leaves one picking shards of glass out of his or her figurative ‘arr-soul’ for longer than the particular one in question would deem comfortable… I find this silence disturbingly comforting.
I also find some of the relevations / revelations… [one such mirror image should be the right one]… a bit troubling. For one thing… coming face to face with the documented transcripts of my mother’s, well, quite frankly, our collective demise, has lead me to say… “well gosh darn-it, having seen into the soul of the whale… can I really continue to chase (how do you spell chase / chace anyway?) shadows around in my subconcious and publicly categorize balls of lint and correlated memories?
I am the sum total of all of the experiences I read about in my mother’s paper-chase blog-free-log; and I have been doomed to repeat many of the sins of my father. I am, after all, a bastard by any other word… and still smell as sweet. Two days with neither sleep nor shower should do it. Am I losing it? quite the contrary… I have found it… and have nothing else to bitch about.
So, mounting up in icy-pearlèd car,
Through middle empire of the freezing air
He wandered long, till thee he spied from far;
There ended was his quest, there ceased his care;
Down he descended from his snow-soft chair,
But, all un’wares, with his cold-kind embrace,
Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding-place.
- John Milton [On the death of a Fair Infant...], 1625-26
I could continue the deluge of the delicacies of lisbon [the translation of the superlative of lust, love and geography intertwined]; however in my stark revelation, I felt tremendously exposed and quite frankly… uncomfortable. Had I indeed revealed an impossible truth? or just another in a long line of contradictions. I do have to mind my diction; for nary a weary soul has fallen pray to its prowl.
And yes–for all those who are not aware, the ‘lisbon’ shun the “diction-principle.”
Phonetically, it all makes perfect sense[that is, if you speak with a lisp or a whistle]; and perhaps adjacently, this is a reference to cunning linguistics. I for one abhor the taste of such things… and shy away from the smell, taste or feel of uncooked bacon at all cost; having only once found the bouquet of oak and spring time peach blossoms. That however, was a very long time ago… and the orchard no longer satiates the distant longing: having been plucked, so vigorously in winter, at the hands of the violent strum.
That paragraph was fun.
And honestly, though I do enjoy the writhe of an exposed rib and pert nipple… protruding collar bones and the muscular torment of the adjacent spine; there is no appeal in the peel… nor the bountiful succulent reveal. It just is not my thing… so can I really be a ‘lisbonite’ in earnest?
Ah conflicts, conflicts.
What I do know, is that I have a very longstanding relationship / lifelong obsession with the notion of an emotional concubine… with flowing words that simply bend to my will, and limbs that shudder with each instance of my impregnable stare. On some people, oh that is such a wonderful experience… that desire of the ‘marsh-mellow’ to melt with the application of gentle heat; or expound with expansive pressure of a microwave. How do I know how to make a ‘mush-mallow’ explode in a microwave, you may ask? What better purpose for a microwave than the exploration of its luminous efficacy.
So wilt not my ‘fear’ flower… you shall bloom again in spring-time pastures.
O FAIREST Flower, no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken Primrose fading timelessly,
Summer’s chief honour, if thou hadst outlasted
Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry;
For he, being amorous on that lovely dye
That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss
But killed, alas! and then bewailed his fatal bliss.
- John Milton [On the death of a Fair Infant... Dying of a cough], 1625-26