DON'T TELL THEM WE WENT DOWN TO YBOR CITY AGAIN

slept thirteen hours last night and my body is weak and my eyes are woozy.  like, sleep doesn't sound like a destructive urge but this smacks of some kind of masochism.  woke up and the boy had snuck into my bed and was touching my face with concerned fingers, like i wasn't going to wake up.

anyway it's one in the afternoon now and i still can't really wrap my head around anything that isn't a picture on this here lcd screen.  my one day off this week from selling hats for my father and i'm spending it in last night's clothes, my head crackling and over-large.  there won't be any studying today. much less writing. i should try something along the lines of a free-write, though, as i already feel disconnected from what i'm doing.

i don't know why i keep writing poems about the idea of language.  it's nothing i really think about daily, even on some kind of half-conscious level: it's not necessarily like i have trouble talking to people.  verbal communication is unfortunately my strong suit, as much as i've always wanted to be the gamine girl in her thrifted clothes waiting for people to come to me (ahaha).  anyway there are usually words for what i want to say.  this probably means my ideas aren't all that earth-shattering, as the forty gre words i'm attempting to learn this week express things that i should probably consider more but don't (exculpate, to set free; truculent, fierce & cruel, ready for war; disabuse, to set right, to undeceive).  mostly i talk about pretty things.  i like pretty writing.  is it bad that i consider this a failing?

anyway, poetry, writing poetry about language and hands, and about how language should have hands, language should be a stand-in for the physical.  is it a stand-in for the physical? i obviously need it to be. i spin my life out in plans inlaid in plans, pretty ones.  water-skiing, adopting a dog in texas even though the rhetoric is ridiculous (poor fido wants his forever-home), and unfortunately i like that too.  i like garbage bags with eyes drawn-on and plastic ties akimbo into ears, fat bunnies lumped cutely in the bin.  that girl.  belle & sebastian, with their snow-foxes and library girls, is finally starting to make me a little queasy - i've moved on to men with literary haircuts who scream their literary lyrics like dirty come-ons, which makes me feel better (why?).  thank god i never got that tattoo of the kissing birds with their visible beating hearts.  now if i could stop looking at apartments on craigslist for programs that won't be accepting me this fall -- well that would be another step in the right direction.

and all of this is clutter around the real ideas, right?  i mean.  don't ask me.  i haven't eaten today and my sheets smell like serious lazy.

so what was i saying about cute things? i give up, it's probably much better this way.