flexagon: (racing-turtle)
It looks like such fun to go trolling,
swinging, skipping across the internet --
all lightness and snark and button-pushing
balloon-popping
with minor self-congratulations for foible spotting.
I'm clever too, I can see the cracks in people
just like you can, you merry little trolls.
But I can't I can't I can't because I'm probably the mod
and I am driven to imagine the upset on the other end
of the long, conductive, sparky linking wire
and all I'm really thinking is, Fuck,
who died and made me the grownup here?
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
People behaving
badly on the internet:
it's a nine-cat night.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
I did hear the audience clap, once,
as I held myself on one arm -- be still, be still --
and reached for the far wall with the other
and I knew three of us were reaching at the same time.
After that, nothing at all but blood in my ears,
the music, counting to eight over and over.
Later, they said the audience went nuts.
Who was the observer and who the observed?
If a tree claps in the forest but isn't heard... well...?
What I know is that I balanced,
the lights were bright,
a song played.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
Tonight I made a new friend when I could have been saying goodbye to an old one. Disloyal, I remained across town, shifting my weight. The new friend is very small, and, in parting, said "Thanks for dancing with me!"

Confusing but nice.

Am I a dancer? Is this a poem? WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
Everyone loves a good power outage,
the comfort of restricted options, small lights
in the friendly dark.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
A favorite webcomic says: Live every day like the cops have no idea.
It also says, live every day like it's your second last.
The web says, live every day like it's shark week, which is very deep indeed.
I think I live most days like people get fined for wearing saturated colors,
and like doing handstands will feed the hungry,
and like the happiness of cats is legal tender for all debts, public and private.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
Riding on a purple train
After snuggling in a silver car
Flashing past grey cemeteries,
Green trees, white graffiti,
On an ice-blue Monday morning
that smells like new crayons.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
So. It seems a person can truly love something and still (desperately) need a break? This has the ring of an aphorism, one that I never really believed in, one that someone probably told me as I rolled my young eyeballs to the ceiling.

Related: one can truly love something and also have nightmares about it.

Related: loving and being angry.

Related: love and hate themselves can coexist. But you knew that one, everyone knows that one.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
Completely rubbed raw, and I would like some alone time, and I'm not going to get any.

Is it possible to get into a state where talking to other people in person is actually harmful, or does it just feel that way? And what do I have that everyone WANTS so much?

Things I don't have include: the answer, ashes from a cremation, the secret of how to perfectly clip a cat's nails, a #2 pencil suitable for completely filling in the ovals of a standardized test.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
A week might sound longer or shorter than seven days.
Repeat it: it sounds like an insect call: week, week, weeeek.
And what I am thinking, on this anniversary, is that I'm glad
There is no word for seven years. I choose against creating one.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
In the moment, my body focused on what it needed to and my brain forgot to make proper memories, although proper memories are what I wanted secondmost of all. I leaned back, yes; feet left the ground, yes; and when the lightness came, I pushed my hands down to my feet fast, hard, fast. But I don't know what happened then, how I suddenly found myself in a different thing, a familiar balance. Discontinuity like that is just sort of thing that can tell you you're dreaming, and if you're trying to induce lucid dreams you should watch for them; but I really think I was awake, and tight, and that the spotter (tall, skilled and famous) never touched me. The details recede, not caring whether it really happened.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
Observations of disappointments:
people can't do what they wish they could,
or are not chosen to display a skill
for one reason or another -- partner is busy
with another trick with another person,
or only two pairs are needed, or too tall,
and nobody gets to be in the middle all the time.
Time! Timing is bad too, too rushed, too slow,
and what on earth will we wear?
I feel experienced, detached, as I am passed over
in my turn, as I help to make an inspiration.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
It is difficult and important
to stand on one's hands,
to remember you have something to offer,
to remember that love is a verb.

To stand on one's hands,
to know that gravity is the best toy,
to remember that love is a verb,
that discipline is improvisation backwards.

To know that gravity is the best toy
turns the world into a playground; and
that discipline is improvisation, backwards
from what the adults ever told you.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
What I'm feeling in my scapulae right now is hope, tingly as menthol.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
Iconoclasts and idols,
idle handstands in parking lots,
lots of hours,
ours.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
We take different paths, you and I, through the same yellow leaves and raindrops.

My appetite for sleep grows prodigious; I spill dreams everywhere.

If shadow was a substance, imagine it would liquefy with cold and contract to dark solidity in the shimmering heat. Something ought to act that way. What is the opposite of water?

It was too cold for anything to cast a shadow, even you, even I.
flexagon: (racing-turtle)
Hypercube grows without knowing it, her memories all of smaller times.
It takes longer for her to bathe herself. The world shrinks
and there is no reason to think it can do otherwise.
The table comes within jumping range, other cats grow shorter.
She dreams of one day spanning the couch with her nap,
of batting me across the floor, of someday pushing by necessity out
of the house, sleek and hungry for the next level.
How many levels does this game have, she will wonder
as she purrs, waiting for the cars to become toylike.

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